


The First Year

by meteorshowers



Series: All Falls Are Fatal [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Assassins & Hitmen, Depression, Dreams, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Falling In Love, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Loneliness, Male Friendship, Memories, Mind Palace, Multi, Platonic Romance, Post Reichenbach, Recreational Drug Use, Romance, Secrets, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-29
Updated: 2012-12-12
Packaged: 2017-11-17 07:32:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 26,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/549120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meteorshowers/pseuds/meteorshowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's funeral, John Watson leaves the flat on Baker Street and tries to move on. Soon, he meets the flawless Mary Morstan. John loves her, but thoughts and feelings for Sherlock begin to take over his mind and make him question the nature of the friendship they used to have, and the relationship he has begun with Mary. John knows that it's too late to turn back, and though danger is close at hand, he refuses to lose anyone else he loves. </p><p>Sherlock Holmes doesn't take the lonely months well. Old cravings and wants begin to change him, and cocaine becomes his new best friend. But even the drugs can't make him forget what he needs to live for: John Watson. And he'll do anything to get his old life back, even if it means risking his own life in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue - John

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> But he was gone.
> 
> Sherlock was gone.
> 
> ...

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

The name itself was so odd and unique, something he’d never heard before. But when John Watson was first introduced to the odd genius of a man, he felt that the name seemed adequate. Sherlock was a genius in every sense of the word. He was exceptionally intellectual and creative…

_He wasn’t a fraud._

_He wasn’t, he couldn’t be._

_John knew him._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

John’s feet were made of lead as he stood, heavy with every step on the concrete. His head was spinning, he had just fallen on the cold concrete.

_They both fell._

But John was standing again, moving. He was moving towards the crumpled form of his friend.

_Sherlock._

People were already crowding around, panicking, surrounding the body. John tried to breathe, and every exhale was Sherlock.

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

He was stuck in time, he felt like he wasn’t getting any closer. But then he felt his numb fingers push at the crowd. He felt himself waver as he looked down at the blood.

_So much blood._

_And Sherlock._

_Sher-_

“I’m a Doctor… Let me come through… Let me come through please! He’s my friend… He’s my friend! Please!” The way was clear but hands were grabbing at his sleeves, still trying to hold him back. John could just… reach. He pulled onto the same wrist that he held onto just the night before.

_Take my hand._

_Now people will definitely talk._

_Oh._

_Sherlock._

There was no pulse. Nothing to feel. Just cold and silent flesh against his fingers. He didn’t want to let go, he couldn’t let go. Everything became too slow, it wasn’t real.

_It couldn’t be real._

_This was Sherlock._

_Sherlock._

Blood was rolling down his face, his eyes were pure, cold, dead. Almost as soon as John had clutched his wrist, someone pulled at John’s hand, Sherlock’s wrist fell from his grasp to the wet concrete with a thud. They were pulling at John again, he tried to remain grounded on his own, but they seemed so strong. “Please, let me just…” And then he collapsed, all his weight fell onto someone else, the numbness was overwhelming, he couldn’t breath, or think, or feel.

_Please._

_Please._

_Let me… Stay._

John watched Sherlock’s body get turned over so that he was lying on his back now. There was so much white noise, so much movement. But Sherlock was still and silent against the ground.

_More blood._

_So much more blood..._

“Oh, Jesus, no…God, no.” He couldn’t speak, everything came out in whimpers and slurred words. John felt like the weight of the world was on his shoulders… literally. He was so heavy, he felt himself falling as fingers grasped at his clothing, trying to keep him standing. He was being pulled back from the body, but he only wanted to fall forward, clutch onto Sherlock’s still form and hope to be left alone with him.

_One last time._

John had never gotten the chance to memorize everything about the man on the concrete. He never thought about it before, but right now he wanted to feel the fading warmth of Sherlock’s body, the course material of that coat, the softness of his curls. He wanted to see life in those eyes, he wanted to feel a heartbeat in Sherlock’s chest. He wanted Sherlock’s arms to curl around him and hold him tight. He wanted Sherlock to look into his eyes with their burning intensity and say,

_John, I lov-_

He looked into Sherlock’s eyes again, there was nothing there. Nothing behind those ever-changing eyes.

_Grey-_

_Blue-_

_Green._

_Did it ever matter?_

_Did his eyes ever stay the same colour?_

_Well, now they would..._

“Oh, God…” John felt his heart fall, seeping through his own chest. The only thing to hold his heart in his chest was the little arteries, veins and capillaries attached. One by one, they would rip and bleed out, his heart would fall into his gut. But being a doctor, all of this sounded so improbable…

_But why was he feeling like it was happening right now, in his chest?_

_Internal bleeding._

_Fatal._

_His heart was falling, breaking._

_Why were falls always fatal?_

Sherlock’s body was being lifted and taken away, John could only hold onto the ground beneath him. He still couldn’t breath, his heart wasn’t working. Nothing was working.

_But it was so cold…_

_He stood up before the stretcher was completely out of sight._

_Pull yourself together._

_Stand up and breath, pump blood, think._

_You have to think._

_You didn’t die when..._

_Sherlock…_

It was raining again, the heavens had opened, probably to accept the only soul that John didn’t want to part with. Sherlock would have told John that he deserved to be in hell, and though John wasn’t very religious, he knew that Sherlock would never descend to those flaming pits. Heaven was too good for him too, though.

_But he was gone._

_Sherlock was gone._

And John was almost gone too now. He could feel it. Something was missing, something inside him was dissolving. Getting farther and farther away.

_Sherlock._


	2. Last Requests

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He was gone.
> 
> John was completely alone again.
> 
> Only this time he was left un-whole, broken.
> 
> ...

John woke up with a gasp and a name on his lips, “Sherlock!” He sat up in his bed, still tangled in his sheets, the nightmare was fresh in his mind.

_Sherlock._

As soon as he thought the name, he felt a fresh set of tears roll down his face and blur his vision. He put his hands to his face, feeling the warmth of sweat and tears as they mingled and rolled down his face. His body shook with the sobs, getting worse as he realized that his nightmare was real.

_Sherlock fell._

_Sherlock had killed himself._

_And John had seen him do it._

_He could still see Sherlock’s broken body on the concrete, the blood._

_There was so much blood…_

_It was so cold…_

The fall was only a couple days ago, but the memories made it feel like just seconds ago. The nightmare had re-played the whole thing, it was sewn to his soul with course, cold wire, sewn to his every thought, every breath. There was so much _pain_. It was almost like the memories of Afghanistan, but worse.

John remembered the day that his grandfather passed away. He had been so close to him. His grandfather was his hero, a war veteran with many stories about the Great War. John would listen to his stories, excited for the day that he could become a hero like his grandfather. John told him that he would become a soldier too someday, he’d save lives. When his grandfather died, John didn’t cry, he didn’t know what to feel. But one night, he had a dream about his grandfather. In the dream, he was telling John another story, a story that John had never heard before. Thinking back to it now, John had no recollection of the story his grandfather told him. But when he told his mum about that dream in the morning, she told John that sometimes, people who are gone, they appear in our dreams to let us know that they still love us, that they’re still there for us. John felt better knowing that his grandfather still loved him, even if he was gone.

_Sometimes, people we love…_

_People who leave us…_

_They come back to us in a dream…_

_Because they want us to know that they still care about us…_

_They still love us…_

_Sherlock…_

_Does this mean that you actually care?_

_Does this mean that you… actually loved me?_

_Do you still love me… wherever you are?_

_Why didn’t I save you?_

_I could have, you know…_

_I told my grandfather that I’d become a soldier, that I’d save lives…_

_I saved so many…_

_But why couldn’t I save you, Sherlock?_

John put his arms around his knees, over his chest. He rocked back and forth and laid his forehead to his kneecaps. He could feel tears soak into his pyjama bottoms. 

In this moment, he needed someone. But he didn’t want anyone to see him cry. Of course he was strong, on the outside. He was also pretty strong on the inside too. But there were moments when he couldn’t hold it together, and right now, he was falling apart.

_Sherlock._

He choked a sob and shook. He told himself to stop, to go back to sleep. But he needed this. He needed this time to let it out of every pore. He could hear the rain pounding on the roof, it was still dark outside, but it was almost morning. 

When he was too exhausted to cry anymore, he felt swollen and numb. Flattening himself out on the sheets, he looked at the ceiling and concentrated on the rain drops. His face was still wet but he felt everything dissolve again, the tears began to fade. John bit his lip and let his eyelids fall shut, trying to remember the way that Sherlock’s hand felt in his own. The way their hands had fit together, perfect.

_They had been perfect._

 

John saw his therapist only a week after Sherlock’s death. He couldn’t remember why or how he had made the decision, but he didn’t know who else to talk to. It had been eighteen months since held last entered that ordinary office. He remembered going there when he still had the nightmares about the war… So much had changed since then. The nightmares now involved Sherlock, Moriarty, fear and agony and death. 

So much had changed, yet the therapist’s office was the same. She still wore the same perfume, and wore her make-up the same way, there weren’t any new wrinkles on her face or grey hairs on her head. The ceiling was still an ugly shade of green, there was still a coffee stain on the carpet. It was as if those eighteen months had never happened.

_But they had._

_John would never forget those eighteen months._

_The best eighteen months of his life._

The meeting wasn’t long, there hadn’t been much to say. After leaving the therapist, he decided against anymore visits. She asked him questions that he didn’t want to answer, she made him think about things he hadn’t thought of before… things that made the pain worse.

“The stuff that you wanted to say… but didn’t say it”

“Yeah…”

“Say it now”

_Don’t do this, Sherlock._

_I’m sorry about what I said before, I’m sorry._

_You’re not a machine. You’re so human. More human than me._

_You made me better._

_Don’t be dead._

_I want you, I need you._

_Please..._

_I love yo-_

_So many things._

_There was so much that John would have said._

_If he could…_

_Would he?_

“No… I’m sorry, I can’t”

Just remembering that conversation with his therapist made him feel strange. He probably would have never said those things to him… especially the last bit… Those were not things that he could say to Sherlock, to anyone in fact. But mostly Sherlock… Sherlock wouldn’t have understood, he laughed at sentiment.

 

John just didn’t know what to do with himself anymore. Sherlock’s fall was everywhere on the news. It was on television, the internet, and in newspapers on every street corner. John couldn’t leave the flat without having to hide himself from the public eye. Reporters hounded him, asked him why he believed that Sherlock wasn’t a fake. John could never explain. These people didn’t know Sherlock, no one did… not even John. But John continued to defend him, he would always defend Sherlock. Nothing would convince him otherwise. Of course, everyone quoted him in the papers about his statements. They laughed at him, thought he was crazy, almost as crazy as Sherlock Holmes. John couldn’t watch television or surf the internet without being bombarded by the news. After posting an update on his personal blog about Sherlock’s death, he didn’t log back in again. He doubt that he ever would. That part of his life was over now.

 

Of course, people tried to console him. Mrs. Hudson mourned, though she didn’t let John see. He knew that she wouldn’t want him to see her hurting, John was hurting so much more. John didn’t expect Lestrade to speak to him, and John wouldn’t blame him. There had already been so much damage to Lestrade’s reputation, and John felt guilty that Lestrade was suspended from Scotland Yard. Mike Stamford sent his condolences, and Molly came by once. But Harry had been one of the last people to contact him.

_If you need to talk, or a place to stay, you know where to find me. -Harry_

John’s eyes lingered on the text, he wouldn’t delete it, but he wouldn’t accept her offer. He doubted that he ever would. John had expected Mycroft to say something, but then thought that Mycroft would probably want some time to himself, being the proud, standoffish, introvert that he was. After all, it was his brother who had just died, and he would still have guilt from giving Moriarty all that damned information.

 

The moment that John got back home with Mrs. Hudson after the funeral, John went up to his room and packed a simple suitcase with his belongings. He thought about the funeral service. There hadn’t been a big crowd, a couple friends and clients came, along with a couple reporters who had more questions for him. Mycroft was there, but he stayed at a distance. Molly stood with Mrs. Hudson and John during the service. John felt uncomfortable the whole time, he felt like everyone else’s eyes were on him, expecting him to cry or yell or something. The minister even asked John, as Sherlock’s best and only friend, if he wanted to say a few words before they lowered the casket. John shook his head in a very sharp and robotic way, wanting to run away from that place. Molly was watching John closely, he could feel her eyes on him more than everyone else. John looked down as they lowered the casket into the ground. He didn’t want to see anything, didn’t want to think about it. By the time that the grave was filled in with dirt, John walked away with Molly and Mrs. Hudson, they were the only ones who remained. John felt shaky as he stuffed clothes into his suitcase. He left the flat the way it was, most everything had belonged to Sherlock or Mrs. Hudson. Before leaving, he went to every room and tried to commit it to memory in case he never felt like coming back. 

As soon as he got to Sherlock’s room, he paused. The door was closed, it felt domineering in a way… John cringed. There had always been a mysterious quality to Sherlock’s room, of course John had seen it before, but Sherlock has a pretty private person when he wanted to be… John felt the doorknob under his finger tips, but eventually turned away to go downstairs. The thought of entering Sherlock’s room had brought on a new collection of emotions and curiosities, it was best to leave it be. 

It didn’t take long for John to find a cheap flat on the other side of London. Mrs. Hudson never questioned him on his departure, she understood. When Mycroft found out about it, he promised to pay Mrs. Hudson for the full expense of 221B. The flat wouldn’t change, everything would stay the same, nothing removed or replaced except for a few experiments and supplies that went into boxes. It became a sort of relic that John would have the freedom to come back to if he ever wanted to.

When John came for Mrs. Hudson to visit the cemetery one afternoon, she only gave a weak smile and locked the door before hailing a taxi. It had been a couple weeks since John’s departure, but Mrs. Hudson didn’t comment or ask questions about his temporary home. On the way to the cemetery, Mrs. Hudson asked the cabbie to stop so she could get some flowers at a local shop. The rest of the taxi-ride smelled of the thick flower scent. It made John feel sick, yet all he did was turn his face toward the window to avoid the strong odour. He hated the smell of flowers, especially roses. Flowers smelled like death. And he’d been to so many funerals in the past, his grandfather, his parents, his military friends, and now his best friend…

_Sherlock._

 

Mrs. Hudson didn’t speak as she grasped John’s hand. There was a new stone in the place where John had seen the gravediggers bury the casket during the funeral. The ground was just starting to recover, new grass was beginning to sprout from the churned earth. John and Mrs. Hudson stopped before the tombstone, the ground squished beneath their shoes from the recent rainfall. In fact, it looked as if another storm was on the way.

It was silent for a few moments, John felt her clutch onto his arm a little tighter, for support… or maybe reassurance. Then she let go to lean down over the stone, _SHERLOCK HOLMES_ was written in big font. Mrs. Hudson lay the flowers against the ground and stepped back to John’s side.

“There’s all of this stuff… All of the science equipment. I left it all in boxes, I don’t know what needs doing. I thought I’d take it to a school... Would you…?”

John interrupted, feeling anger start to build up again, “I can’t go back to the flat again. Not at the moment.” She squeezed his arm again, sympathy. John took a deep breath, trying to clear his head, but the more he looked at the tombstone, the more anger he felt.

“I’m angry,” he took another breath, looking down at the ground. “It’s ok, John,” she looked back at him, “There’s nothing unusual in that. That’s the way he made everyone feel.

“All the marks on my table, and the noise. Firing guns at half-past one in the morning.” John pictured it all in his mind, but he didn’t want to hear it, “Yeah-”. 

“Bloody specimens in my fridge. Imagine, keeping bodies where there’s food!” 

“Yes,” John closed his eyes, he wanted her to stop. 

“And the fighting. Drove me up the wall with all his carryings on!”

John had enough, “Yeah, listen. I’m not actually that angry, okay?” Mrs. Hudson had tears in her eyes, he understood that she had to get her frustration out, it was a part of grieving. 

“Okay, I’ll leave you alone to, you know…” her voice broke, putting a finger to her lips she left his side and started walking back. John watched her leave, wanting to be alone, right here, right now.

John could feel the anger dissipate and his heart rate began to speed up, he thought of words he could say. Though it sounded insane to be talking to a dead man, “Um… Mmm, right, you… You told me once…” he cleared his throat, “… that you weren’t a hero. Um… There were times I didn’t even think you were human, but let me tell you this, you were…” he looked up at the name on the black stone, “The best man and the most human… human being that I’ve ever known and no one will ever convince me that you told me a lie, okay? So…there.” He sighed, finally saying something that needed to be said. Because John really did believe in Sherlock. It hurt to think that Sherlock wouldn’t believe that statement… That he killed himself because of… a lie. John’s breathing started to quiver, his throat felt thick, there was more to say, so much more.

He walked towards the tombstone, laying the tips of his fingers against the cold rock, “I was…” it was hardly a whisper, but then he found his voice, “I was so alone… And I owe you so much,” John stood away from the stone, his whole body felt shaky, unstable.

“Oh, please, there’s just one more thing, right? One more thing.”

_The only thing that John wanted..._

_Sherlock._

“One more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don’t be… dead” his voice broke on the last word, “Would you, just for me, just stop it? Stop this.” John could hardly continue, he felt his lungs stop working, he felt sick, scared, he felt the tears start to come. 

John felt so hollow, he felt alone again. It was as if Sherlock hadn’t existed, hadn’t come into his life.

Only the painful truth was that Sherlock _did_ exist, and he brought John back into existence when they met. Sherlock brought him back to life, and now John felt weak and useless because he would never bring Sherlock back…

_He was gone._

_John was completely alone again._

_Only this time he was left un-whole, broken._

And after breaking down, he summoned all the strength he had left, and imagined his Drill Sargent, telling him to stand straight and be a man. The hollowness he felt after coming back from Afghanistan came back now, he was back to being the wounded solider. With a slight nod of his head, he turned and walked away. He didn’t look back, he _wouldn’t_ look back. He wouldn’t want to come back here, ever. It wouldn’t change anything.

After finding her beside a waiting cab, John helped Mrs. Hudson inside. Mrs. Hudson may have said a few things to John, but he didn’t really pay attention. His mind was completely blank, he was just… numb.

_Sherlock._

_Don’t be dead._


	3. Remote

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sentiment.
> 
> A chemical defect found in the losing side.
> 
> ...

Sherlock watched John walk away from his “grave”. He couldn’t help but notice that his posture was lacking, that even though John was showing a brave face and walking a military stride, Sherlock could tell that the act was not working. With each step farther from the cold black tombstone, John seemed to have a battle between his mind and his body in deciding how to walk away. All traces of tears were gone from his face, his expression was hard and made of stone. For once, Sherlock could neither deduce nor understand what John was feeling. His face had become… changed. It was something that Sherlock could not recognize. 

After watching John catch up to Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock shrunk further into the shadows of the spruce trees and wove his way around them to find his way back to his hidden home. 

For the time being, Sherlock was staying in a small basement across the street from Molly’s flat. The landlord, who had rented out the basement to Sherlock, had been paid extra and given a list of terms and conditions. This agreement allowed Sherlock’s identity to be safe with the landlord for an allotted amount of time. The landlord was understanding, especially since Mycroft had told him the consequences if he ever decided to reveal Sherlock to anyone. These consequences were rather severe in their nature, and the landlord, Mr. Peters, was willing to accept this offer. Though he couldn’t help but shrink away in fright whenever he happened to come across Sherlock in their hallway. 

Of course, Mycroft and Molly had become quite helpful in hiding Sherlock’s existence. While Mycroft worked out the legal issues and the information about Moriarty’s web, Molly had worked out the the accommodations and resources that Sherlock needed while in hiding.

Everyday was busy with work. Sherlock had much to discuss with Mycroft while trying to work out a way to track down Moriarty’s web. Free time or being “bored” was not an option anymore. Sherlock didn’t have time to be bored, and to be truthful, his health began to greatly decline with the pressure he was putting on himself.  He no longer had John to remind him of the time, or when to eat, when to sleep. Sherlock didn’t have room in his head for petty things such as eating and sleeping. Though sometimes his body had made decisions for him. There were times where he would sit at his desk and feel his body slip into a slumber without warning. There were also times where the pain in his stomach from lack of nutrition had caused him to crumble on the floor , moaning from the intense pain. 

Molly became his primary caretaker. She would come once a day to his basement room with food or new information regarding how John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade were doing. It was the only break he would have from working on the web. 

 

A little more than a month in, Sherlock had seemed needy and edgy. Molly had come with some  coffee and a couple bagels. They sat together in silence as Molly watched Sherlock chew while reading a file from Mycroft. But all that he could think about was seeing John at the cemetery that afternoon...

“Sherlock,” Molly said into the silence. She wasn’t sure what exactly to say, but she had to say something. Sherlock didn’t acknowledge her voice but she knew he could hear her. “John…” she didn’t know how to continue, she didn’t want to see Sherlock’s face when she told him about John’s progress.

As if sensing what Molly would say next, Sherlock looked up from his papers and stared into Molly’s eyes. There was an eagerness and concern in his eyes that made her feel her heart fall in her chest. “John isn’t doing so good.”

Of course, this was obvious. John had been feeling awful ever since the day of the fall. But what Molly was trying to say was that John was taking a turn for the worse. Sherlock seemed to understand Molly, yet he didn’t say anything in return. Rather, he swallowed what was in his mouth and took a long sip of his now-cold coffee.

“What I mean is…” Molly paused, taking a breath, “ John isn’t going back to the flat… Mrs. Hudson told me...”

Sherlock breathed out a sigh and closed his eyes. Molly fumbled with her fingers, chipping away the fading nail polish. What was there to say next? What did she expect Sherlock to do? It wasn’t possible for Sherlock to go back, this secret was for John’s safety and survival. 

_John would never understand._

_But Sherlock would never understand why he had gone to such measures in order to ensure John’s safety._

_And maybe someday, someday…_

_Sherlock would be able to come back._

_John was the only thing that mattered._

 

Molly left soon after they’re conversation, and Sherlock didn’t respond to her quiet “See you tomorrow”. As soon as Molly was up the stairs and out the door, Sherlock took the paper on his desk and tore each page into small pieces. He felt hot anger rush to the surface of his skin as he spilled the coffee on the wooden panels under his feet, crumpling down to the floor in the sticky mess. 

_Sentiment._

_A chemical defect found in the losing side._

_Sherlock had lost._

_Moriarty may have died, Sherlock may have faked his death…_

_But Jim Moriarty was the man who beat Sherlock Holmes._

_Jim Moriarty succeeded in burning the heart out of him._

_It was something that he’d thought impossible..._

_Sherlock knew the effects of sentiment._

_He never wanted to care about anyone._

_It was a promise that he made to himself, as a child._

 

_Alone was what he had, alone protected him…_

_Until he met John Watson…_

_John Watson changed… everything._

_“Friends protect people”_

_Sherlock had to protect the only friend he had._

 

_Moriarty might be dead, Sherlock might be hiding,_

_But there were evils lurking in the shadows that Sherlock had to destroy._

_Danger wouldn’t disappear that easily._

_There was more to Moriarty’s plan._

_And if Sherlock didn’t hurry…_

_Well…_

_Everything would be over,_

_And there would be no coming back._

Sherlock didn’t cry. Sherlock never cried. The pain in his chest was something that tears could never express. Sherlock was angry, enraged by himself. He felt selfish, deceitful, cowardly. Instead of actually killing himself to save his friends, he decided to escape death and let the pain of loss and loneliness linger in him while they believed he was gone forever. For the first time in years, drugs really seemed like a good idea. Anything to numb the pain he was feeling.

But just as soon as that thought came to him, his head snapped up from his cupped hands and he picked away through the piles of torn paper. He wasn’t sure if he was hearing things again, but he thought that he had heard a text alert. 

When he finally found his phone among the scraps of paper, he looked down to see what the message was. His heart rate sped up when he saw the name on the display screen: John Watson.

_Please come back. JW_

Sherlock stared at the screen for what felt like an hour. He didn’t know what to do. More than anything, he wanted to reply, to tell John he was on his way. But he knew that wouldn’t happen, maybe not for a long time, maybe not _ever_. Sherlock had always replied to everyone’s texts. The only exception had been Irene Adler, and he knew that he would probably never hear from her again. 

This had been the first text that John had sent to Sherlock since the fall. And though it was a month ago, Sherlock didn’t understand why John had started to text him now. It only made the separation feel more painful. 

Exasperated, Sherlock threw his phone back onto the table and started to organize the bits of torn paper. For the next few hours he successfully taped the most important papers back together, while the more damaged or less important papers went in the bin. 

For the first time in two weeks, Sherlock actually walked over to his bed and tried to sleep. It was only seven in the evening, but Sherlock never really paid attention to the conventional hours to go to sleep. But even though he was prepared to sleep this time, all he could think about was John. He put his hand under the pillow to touch his cell phone, knowing that only hours ago, John had sent him a text. It was the first connection that he had had with John since his fall. 

 

Though Sherlock had been restless for many hours, tossing and turning, he eventually fell asleep. But it was not peaceful. His dreams drifted from seeing John, to seeing snippers in the shadows watching Sherlock from afar. A bullet was flying towards John’s chest when Sherlock woke up in a cold sweat. Sherlock panted and sat up in his bed. The blankets were crumpled in a mess around his legs and there was a dim light coming from the small window near the ceiling. Sherlock felt under his pillow for the phone and felt his heart stop when he discovered that the phone was gone. 

Immediately, Sherlock stood from the bed, pressing the button on his lamp to light up the room. The sudden brightness made Sherlock blink and squint his eyes, trying to adjust to the light while crouching to the floor in search of the phone. A new wave of panic swept over him as he looked around helplessly. 

_He didn’t see the phone anywhere._

There was a muffled buzz and it caught his attention. It was the familiar buzz of his text alert, and in seconds he found the source of the noise. The phone has been under his crumpled sheets. As eager as he was the day before, he read the text.

_I can’t sleep. JW_

“Me too,” Sherlock said hoarsely, his voice heavy with sleep. 

Putting his phone on the nightstand, he walked to the bathroom. It was a shabby little bathroom, very small and cramped, but good enough. Sherlock turned on the cold water from the tap and washed his face. He succeeded in washing alway the sweat and tiredness. Next, Sherlock went back to his room to sit at the edge of his bed, phone in hand.

He looked down the device, unsure what to do. Slowly, he dialled a familiar number and waited for someone to pick up the phone on the other end.

“Hello?” said a weak and sleepy voice from the receiver, “Sherlock? Why are you calling?”

It took a few seconds for Sherlock to respond, “Sorry Molly. But I just… need someone right now”.

Molly didn’t respond very fast, he had obviously just woken her up. “I’ll be there,” she said and then hung up.

Sherlock put the phone in his pocket and walked to the small kitchen area outside of his bedroom. He looked down at the kettle, trying to remember how to make coffee. It had been awhile since he had made it for himself, let alone someone else. It was a little less than a year ago that he had made coffee for John while they were on the Baskerville case. But John was usually the one to make hot beverages. 

_John._

A knock at the door brought Sherlock out of his stupor as he gave up with the kettle and went to answer the door. Molly stood there, sleepy and dressed in an odd assortment of clothes. Sherlock didn’t comment on her appearance, he let her in and she sat him down on his little couch. While Molly worked on the coffee, Sherlock took his phone out of his pocket and stared at the two texts that he had received from John.

_Please come back. JW_

_I can’t sleep. JW_

Molly came to sit beside him and handed him a mug of coffee. Black with two sugars. Sherlock felt a little better after taking a few sips, he felt the fright from his dreams slip away, though they weren’t forgotten. Molly offered him a biscuit and they sat in silence. She didn’t complain about how early it was in the morning, or how Sherlock didn’t say “thank you”. She knew that Sherlock was not doing well, she could see it in his eyes, but she’d never comment about it. Molly wanted to help him, she really cared about Sherlock, he needed her to help fake his death and now he needed her for support. 

“Molly,” Sherlock said in a small voice, very unlike him, “I need him.” 


	4. Abolished Life

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyday became routine again, things were back to normal yet everything was different.
> 
> ...

When he got back to his new flat after going to the cemetery, he went straight to bed. He didn’t even bother changing his clothes or taking off his shoes. 

_Sherlock._

_If you can hear me…_

_Please come back._

_I need you._

John scrolled through his contacts, hardly thinking about what he was doing. He typed in a message and pressed “send”. Right after the message went through, he wanted to take it back. He wanted to erase the message, it was a mistake.

_He had just texted a dead man’s cell phone._

_What was he thinking?_

John cleared his mind, trying not to think of the events that had happened that afternoon at the cemetery. John had poured out his heart and soul to a tombstone, and he supposed, the body that lay six feet below the ground. He still felt hollow, sensitive, not himself. He reached for the glass of lukewarm water on his nightstand and drank it’s remains. He felt very panicky and restless. Standing up, he went to the window and looked at the cars passing by outside. Everything seemed to be reminding him of Sherlock. 

_The air he breathed._

_The sheets on his bed._

_The shoes on his feet._

_The grimy window._

_Everything was Sherlock._

_Everything._

John moved back towards his bed, just as he felt sleep drift over his body and consume him, John’s hand grazed the cell phone in his pocket. He remembered the last words that Sherlock had said, “Goodbye, John”. Then he fell asleep.

 

_Moriarty laughed in John’s nightmares. The dreams had shifted from John finding Sherlock’s body, to suddenly seeing Moriarty stand over them, smiling down at John. John held Sherlock’s body against his own. He could feel the diminishing warmth of Sherlock’s lifeless body against his, he could feel the blood from Sherlock’s head soak into the fabric of his jacket. He could taste Sherlock’s blood when he put his lips to his hair. Moriarty looked at John and laughed, the look in his eyes was haunting._

 

John woke up with a gasp and panted as he reached for the light switch and picked up his phone.

He didn’t know what to expect. A couple minutes after sending that text last night, he realized that he had sent it to a dead man. So why was he checking the phone again now, as if he’d ever get a reply?

Of course, there wasn’t a reply. John wasn’t surprised, yet he was still disappointed. Sherlock had answered every single text that John had ever sent to him. Sherlock loved having the last say in things. Sherlock was the one to end conversations. 

_Sherlock would outlive God having the last word._

But this time was different. This time… Sherlock was dead, and he wouldn’t have the last word. John looked out the window and could see a dim light coming on the horizon. The sun was rising, he had woken before his alarm, but there was no way he could fall back to sleep no matter how tired he still was.

His phone felt heavy in his hand. Without a second thought he typed:

_I can’t sleep. JW_

This time, he stared at his phone and waited for a reply, almost positive that he’d get one this time. But there was nothing. John felt himself break down, he put his head in his hands and cried. 

 

Everyday became routine again, things were back to normal yet everything was different. The next couple of months went by quickly. He went to work at the doctor’s office everyday. Sarah greeted him with sympathy and a cup of coffee each morning. 

Since John was on his own now, he worked extra hours so he could spend less time at the cheap flat. Every evening he would go straight to bed, sleeping through the night and then waking up at his alarm clock every morning. He had occasional nightmares, but they weren’t as bad as soon as John started living life. When John was having a particularly difficult day or came across a painful memory, the nightmares came back with full force. But sometimes he felt a little better. His cellphone was always by his side. Just incase there was ever a reply.

 

John was at the doctor’s office, caring for a little girl who had a fever, when Sarah interrupted him to say he had a telephone call. John finished up a prescription and went to receive the call before getting his next patient. 

“Hello, Dr. Watson speaking”

“John? It’s me… Harry”

John was a little surprised to receive a call from Harry while at work, she would probably want to know how he was doing...

“Hey, Harry. How are you?”

“I’m fine… Though I was calling to hear how you were doing”

John blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, he really didn’t want to talk to his sister right now, “Um… I’m okay. Not great, but good enough I guess.”

“Oh…” Harry had never been good at making conversation, “Well, I was wondering if you received any of my texts and voicemails? Why have you been ignoring me, is it because of the alcohol? I’m working on tha-”

John interrupted her, “Harry, I’m at work. Can’t this wait for later? There isn’t much I can tell you. I’m trying to move on, okay?” Frustration was evident in his voice, but he tried not to sound too angry in front of weary patients.

“But, you’re _not_ going to answer my calls later. You _never_ would. I know you. The only reason that you picked up the phone at work was because you thought it wouldn’t be me. If you knew, you wouldn’t have accepted the call!”

“Okay, I don’t have time for this Harry. I’m sorry, but I need to be alone. It isn’t about you, just give me some space.” Before she could retaliate, he hung up the phone and took a deep breath. Sarah looked at him with concern but didn’t bother to ask. 

John walked back to his office where a little old woman sat patiently waiting. He taking a deep breath and clearing his head, he looked down at his clipboard for the next patient’s name. “Sorry for keeping you, Mrs. Tomas. What seems to be the problem?”


	5. The Weakest State

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The sooner you finish the web, the sooner you get to see John again.”
> 
> ...

Mycroft came over to visit Sherlock that afternoon. Under his arm was another set of files that would replace the ones that Sherlock had destroyed. Neither said anything as Mycroft placed the files on Sherlock’s already messy desk. The floor by the desk was still a little sticky from spilling the coffee the night before. Mycroft looked over Sherlock’s new living quarters and couldn’t help missing John and Mrs.Hudson’s presence in Sherlock’s life. He’d forgotten how well they had cared for him back at Baker Street, his habits had improved around them. Sherlock had always been very disorganized, but when John moved in only a couple years before, their flat seemed to be presentable. But now in his absence, Sherlock was on his own again and things started to go back to the way they were after Sherlock moved out during his youth. 

Mycroft felt that there must be something that he could fix with Sherlock. But Sherlock never seemed to give him a chance. Mycroft spoke with their mother often, sometimes she worried about Sherlock. Of course she had every right to, after Sherlock had run away from home and set off on his own. Mycroft didn’t want to remember the state it left their mother in…

“These files, Sherlock, are very important in tracking the web. I expect you to treat these files with utmost caution and care. This information is difficult to come by, and you’re quite lucky that I had a second set.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he fiddled with his hair. He sat, slouched, on the couch with little interest in what Mycroft was saying. But Mycroft knew that Sherlock cared about these files, finishing the web meant everything to him. Sherlock was back to being the arrogant teenager, it brought a new wave of regret over Mycroft as he strolled back to the doorway. Mycroft looked back at his brother, knowing that there was something Sherlock was trying to say.

Sherlock sat in silence, twirling one of his curls between two fingers and biting his lip. “John texted me…” Mycroft looked at Sherlock with shock, “Twice…” Sherlock finished, looking up at Mycroft with sadness written in the way his eyebrows knit with the creases of his forehead. Mycroft analyzed Sherlock again. In less than seconds, Sherlock had degraded from an arrogant teenager to an innocent and worried child. Mycroft didn’t know what to say, but John’s texts would make things worse. Mycroft made note that he’d have to tell John’s therapist to stop him from the texting. _If_ John ever went back to his therapist...  
“The sooner you finish the web, the sooner you get to see John again,” Mycroft said coldly as he walked out the door. He felt concerned for his brother, he didn’t want to have to say that to Sherlock, but Mycroft had as much trouble as Sherlock when dealing with emotions and consoling others. Sherlock would understand, though it wouldn’t make him feel any better.

 

Molly came back to Sherlock’s basement apartment late in the evening. She noticed that the coffee spill that was by his desk that morning was now cleared away, though a little sloppily. The pile of torn papers were all in the bin while a set of perfect files sat in an organized pile on the desk surface. Sherlock had tried to clean up, but was not very successful.

Lying on the small sofa was Sherlock, his long, lean, body was bent in order to accommodate the smallness of the furniture. His eyes were closed, he looked like he was sleeping, and in his hand was his cell phone. 

Molly went to the sink to get a wet washcloth. She came back to the floor by the desk and cleaned away any of the remaining residue of coffee that Sherlock had left after trying to clean the mess himself. When Molly stood up from the floor and walked back to the sink, Sherlock spoke, “How is he?”

Molly thought back to her quick meetings with John. She’d found him at coffee shops, grocery stores, anywhere he frequented. She had noticed that he looked very tired, with dark circles under his eyes. He also didn’t seem to want to speak much, he seemed desperate to leave her and continue his chores or activities. Molly really worried for both John and Sherlock. She didn’t know what to say when Sherlock asked how he was.

“Um… He’s fine, I guess. Not that great. It’s difficult to find him around these days. He’s working a lot more now.”

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Instead he looked down at the two texts that John had sent him. He wondered if he’d ever get a third one. Thinking back to Mycroft’s visit earlier, Sherlock wished that he hadn’t mentioned the texts. That was personal, something John wouldn’t have wanted Mycroft to know about. Sherlock felt like throwing the phone, but knowing that it was his only connection to John, he held onto it tightly instead. 

Molly came over to Sherlock’s side. She seemed unsure of what to do. “I’ll continue keeping an eye on him if you like.”

Sherlock looked up from his phone. “Yes… I’d like that.”

 


	6. The Prodigal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John, please answer my texts! Remember what I told you on the phone, you can always come live at my flat if you have nowhere else to go. - Harry
> 
> ...

Seeing Molly around had helped a little, even if they didn’t talk too much. John just liked to see someone familiar, it was comforting to know that Molly had wanted to check up on him from time to time. He felt a little guilty for wanting to avoid her, while he loved seeing her, sometimes he’d rather be alone. It was a complicated emotion… He wanted to be alone, but he wanted company. Over the past four months, nothing had really changed. Though he was feeling a little better, there was a strange uneasy feeling in his gut as if he needed to resolve something.

_He needed to prove that Sherlock wasn’t a fake._

_But…_

_How?_

As John walked down the busy streets to his rented room, he couldn’t help thinking about the texts that he had sent to Sherlock’s phone a few months ago. Sending those messages wouldn’t help John’s grieving process in any way, in fact, his therapist would probably take his phone away from him if she found out. But he hadn’t sent any texts since, the temptation was there but he never gave in. As John crossed the street and felt small rain drops begin to fall on his face, he decided against sending any more texts. It was for his own good.

 

It was getting dark when John got through the door and slipped his jacket from his shoulders. His room had been cleaned by a maid during the day, though it wasn’t necessary since John kept his belongings organized. His life with Sherlock had made him lazy with his military habits. But now that Sherlock wasn’t here anymore, John felt himself transition back to strict order and behaviour. 

Sherlock had been terribly messy when John arrived at the flat, but it seemed that after getting comfortable with each other, Sherlock became a **l** ittle more organized and John became a little less organized. Neither of them really changed their habits, but living together had definitely had an impact. John couldn’t help thinking back to those first few weeks together, he smiled. Sherlock had truly tried to make John comfortable, he seemed to be comfortable with sharing the flat since he knew the kind of person John was. Sometimes, Sherlock’s experiments, mood swings, and overall laziness had caused John to become angry. John would curse and rant to Sherlock, and Sherlock seemed to understand, no matter how many insults John shot. Sherlock usually shouted insults back, always had the last word, even if he was wrong. 

John fell out of his memories when there came a knock at his door. He walked back to the door of his flat and opened it to a small man, the apartment owner. 

“Hello, Dr. Watson,” he said in his deep and rough voice, “I’m the owner of this building, and i was just wondering when you plan to leave?”

“Is there something wrong?” John asked politely yet surprised.

“No… nothing really wrong. But we don’t have many rooms, so permanent guests are not really something we need. This building is reserved for those who are in between homes. I hope you understand,” the man said.

“Of course…” John didn’t want to leave, but he figured he would have to go back to the flat a some point. This was probably the best opportunity to return to Baker Street. “I’ll leave tomorrow then, I don’t want to get in the way,” John finished with a small smile. 

After thanking John, the owner walked back down the hall to the stairwell. John closed the door and looked at his small collection of belongings. He hadn’t brought much with him in the first place, so this would make it easier to pack. It was a one room flat with a bed, table and small kitchen area. It was a cosy place, but it was probably best to move on. John didn’t bother changing out of his clothes as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his shoes. 

The sound of his cellphone interrupted the silence, and for a moment, John’s heart leaped in his chest and began to pump vigourously. 

_It’s not a reply._

_It’s not a reply._

_Sherlock isn’t texting me._

_He’s dead._

_Sherlock isn’t texting me._

_Possibility versus Reality._

_The possibility that it was a text from Sherlock, that Sherlock had defied death._

_The reality that he was actually dead, that this was a text from someone else in John’s small circle of friends._

With a shaky hand, he lifted the phone. He wanted to see a text from Sherlock, but he also didn’t want that. It was an inner battle over being optimistic about the possibility, or being realistic. Reality almost always won, though, the only moments that John could recall of having optimism win was the day he was shot in the shoulder and survived, and the day that Mike Stamford told him that he knew someone looking for a flatmate. 

Abandoning his cruel memories, he unlocked the phone to see the message. Relief and despair washed over him, it was not a text from Sherlock Holmes.

_John, please answer my texts! Remember what I told you on the phone, you can always come live at my flat if you have nowhere else to go. - Harry_

John looked at the text, it was the second one that Harry had sent since Sherlock… 

John didn’t enjoy his sister’s company, her drinking had gotten out of hand over the past few years, getting worse after their last remaining parent died a few years ago. Harry had told John that he could stay with her when he came back from Afghanistan, but John ignored her help. One reason was Harry’s recent divorce, the other reason was the worsening of Harry’s drinking habits. Living with the eccentric and dangerous Sherlock Holmes had seemed like the better offer. 

At this point in time, John was being kicked out of his new temporary flat and he had nowhere else to go unless he wanted to go back to Baker Street. Throwing the phone onto his nightstand, he decided that he’d figure it out in the morning.

The room was a little cool, so John turned out the light and clutched his blankets up to his face. The warmth was comforting, his hair was still a little damp from the rain outside, but John decided he’d take a shower in the morning before leaving.

It didn’t take long for John to fall asleep. He was exhausted from a busy day, and also from the nightmare that he had had the night before. He didn’t want to think of the way that his nightmares had evolved when involving Sherlock, it had horrified him. When the light of the sunrise came through the window, John awoke well-rested. His sleep was peaceful and undisturbed by dreams of any sort.

 

It didn’t take long for John to pack, wash up and then leave the room. He went to the owner’s office to pay and bring back his key, and then hailed a taxi at the street corner. As his taxi came to the familiar road on Baker Street, John felt a dread wash over him. He had decided to give Baker Street a try, considering how he didn’t want to go to his sister. But he really hadn’t been looking forward to coming back to his flat this early either. Everything was still too fresh in John’s mind to be able to live here again. It had almost been half a year.

As he lay his palm on the cold door-handle of the cab, John felt anxiety consume him, he needed air, he needed to be away from here. He was just starting to feel something tear inside him when he blurted out Harry’s address to the cabbie, promising to pay extra. 

The driver couldn’t take him away from 221B fast enough. Behind his strong exterior, something had gone wrong. He felt a sudden faintness come over him, he lay his head back and fought back a headache. It reminded him so much of when he had fallen on the concrete at St. Barts, when the cyclist had knocked him over on his way to his dead friend’s side. 

His memories were so vivid that he had to open his eyes, concentrating on the nauseated feeling in the pit of his stomach. A cold sweat broke out on his forehead and he brushed it away with the sleeve of his jacket.

Soon he’d be at Harry’s flat, he’d come to her door like a prodigal. But the thought of Harry no longer dismayed him, in fact it almost relaxed him.

 

The drive had been a little longer than John would have liked. Harry had a small home just outside of London, it was a nice area, less crowded, and it was easier to see the sky without the tall glass buildings blocking the view. John hurriedly paid the driver and took his things. As he stepped out of the cab, he felt the fresh air wash over him. 

Harry opened the door to find her little brother before her, suitcase beside him, his face ashen and dazed. 

“John…” She looked at the cab speeding away behind him and gave him a weak smile. John could feel the worry radiating off of her. He realized that he probably looked terrible from the long drive. “Come in, before the rain starts again,” she opened the doorway wide and stepped aside to let him enter. Taking his bag of luggage, she showed him into her sitting room and offered him tea.

Taking a seat on her sofa, he eased the jacket from his shoulders and studied his surroundings. The coffee table had wet rings at the end closest to Harry’s usual seat, this meant that she had had a drink recently. Judging by the faint smell of beer on her breath, he knew that she had been drinking right before his arrival. 

_That’s not good…_

_Hadn’t she been working on her drinking?_

Coming back into the sitting room, Harry offered John his tea and sat in her chair across from him. She took a sip from her own tea, but John could tell that she was only drinking it for his sake. He had known for years that she preferred alcohol over tea any day, in fact, Harry hated tea. John took a long sip as he watched her expression change from indifference to displeasure. The tea itself wasn’t very good though, to be fair. It was the kind of bland tea Harry only bought for company, not for her own use. Putting down her teacup, Harry crossed her legs and looked back at John. 

“So, John, what brought you here after all this time?” She tried to seem relaxed and steady, but she couldn’t hide her discomfort with John’s sudden appearance and having to drink tea in order to impress him. 

John put his own teacup down on the table after another sip and smiled sheepishly back at his sister. “Well, I figured that I’d take you up on your offer. After all, I haven’t seen you since Christmas holidays, and I’ve missed you.” John knew that most of this was a lie, but he’d become better at lying since his work with Sherlock, and Harry didn’t see him often, so he figured he was safe with this statement. 

“You should have rung me up, I would have prepared your room sooner and served you a meal. Since when have you been this spontaneous?” Harry spoke lightly, trying to lighten the mood, but after realizing her words, she swallowed and continued to say, “But I’m happy that you’ve finally come, I’ve missed you too, and since my therapy, my drinking has gotten much better.”

John raised a eyebrow at her in disbelief and she sighed. “Look…” she spoke as she moved to her little kitchen, “I’ve started drinking non-alcoholic beer! It doesn’t taste the same, but it’s close enough without giving me a damned-hangover.” She brought a beer can to him and he read the label, definitely non-alcoholic. 

_That must of been what she was drinking before he arrived._

“I know you don’t like tea, Harry,” John grinned up at her as she took the can back. He could see the relief in her face as her shoulders relaxed and she grabbed her full teacup. “Thank God,” she laughed as she poured her tea in the sink, picking up a clean glass for her beer. 

John took another sip of his tea as she came back to her seat, taking a sip of her non-alcoholic beer before putting it on the table. Condensation rolled down the glass and created a new ring on the wooden surface, just like the other rings on the table. 

“Anyways, Johnny, you’re welcome to stay as long as you like. Mrs. Hudson would likely want to know of your whereabouts, she told me that she was worried about you. But she definitely wouldn’t rush you back to the flat, the rent is sorted and she won’t remove anything without your say in the matter.” John nodded, taking a final sip of his tea and sitting back. Normally, he would have called Harry out about saying  “Johnny”, he hated that nickname. But for today, he’d let it go. 

“Thank you... for everything.”

“Don’t thank me! You’ve done so much for me over the years and I’ll never be able to pay you back for all the trouble I’ve caused. I just want you to relax and be happy now. You deserve to relax, so don’t worry about the rent here, or being a bother to me. I’m your sister, let me take care of you!” She put an arm on his shoulder in a comforting gesture and he smiled back reassuringly. 

“There, now. Lets get you unpacked and settled,” Harry stood up and rolled his luggage into the hall towards the stairs. John took a deep breath and followed.


	7. Old Resentments

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He wasn’t a dependant person, he never was, but John had become his oxygen. 
> 
> ...

Sherlock was reading, curled up on his sofa, when Mycroft knocked on the shabby basement door. After calling for Mycroft to enter, Sherlock put down the book to make a few notes on a notepad. His brother waltzed into the room, umbrella in hand as he came to stand before Sherlock. His foot patted a slow rhythm on the worn carpet. 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock looked up at him, biting his lip to keep him from snapping at his big brother. Mycroft knew that Sherlock hated it when he patted his foot on the ground. It was a habit that Mycroft had developed in his youth when bossing around his younger brother. Sherlock despised him for opening old wounds and reminding him of the days in which Mycroft had total control over him… but come to think of it, nothing much had changed. After all, the only reason he was staying secret was because Mycroft had forced him to. Otherwise, Sherlock would be seeking the assassins on his own. 

“What is it, Mycroft,” Sherlock asked with a moan. He glared at the intruder with frustration. Mycroft might have smiled down at Sherlock’s discomfort on a different day in a different time, but he didn’t come visit without a serious matter in mind.

Mycroft broke his gaze and eyed his umbrella, leaning down on the handle. “We’ve tracked down a few minor employees in an abandoned warehouse just east outside London. My men will notify me if they find any new information on the three assassins, but for now we are trying to take down the mass amount of weaker employees…” Mycroft shifted his posture and scratched at his chin, “We’re keeping surveillance concentrated on the warehouse for now, with a few secret agents hiding amongst Moriarty’s employees.”

Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, knowing that there was a better reason as to why Mycroft had come. After all, the lazy git wouldn’t leave the comfort of his office or the Diogenes club for a matter like this. “What else has developed?” Sherlock narrowed his eyes. 

Mycroft cleared his throat and attempted a small knowing smile, it was completely fake and out of character, “In other news, we succeeded in moving John out of his temporary room, he’s living with his sister now.”

Sherlock looked away with indifference on his face, but beneath that mask, he wasn’t sure if he should feel upset or relieved. Relief seemed like the better option, since John’s safety was essential to this mission. One of Mycroft’s agents had moved into a place near Harry’s house in order to keep an eye on John in his new destination. Mycroft took a small folded envelop out of his breast pocket and laid it on the cushion beside Sherlock. “This envelop contains the necessary information for you to find the first assassin. Lestrade’s assassin, in case you were interested. It would be best to remove this one before he does any more damage to Scotland Yard’s reputation. As you know, Lestrade is suspended right now, since the trouble you caused. It’s already very unlikely that he will still be Detective Inspector, or even get his job back, for that matter…” Sherlock picked up the envelop, avoiding Mycroft’s glare. “But I will do anything and everything in my power to get Lestrade back in his office. We both know that none of this was his fault.”

Sherlock felt a wave of anger rush through him as he bit back “Lestrade wanted me to work for him, and I did. He _knew_ what he was getting into, letting me go to the crime scenes. And we both know that _you_ don’t have a clear conscience either, Mycroft!”

Mycroft said no more, he swallowed the thick lump in his throat as he walked back to the doorway. “I’m doing everything I can, Sherlock. I don’t like playing these games, but it seems that I’m still the one who has to put all the toys away at the end of the day.” Without another word, Mycroft closed the door behind him as his steps faded away.

Sherlock was alone again, with his thoughts, with his resentments, with his bitterness. Suddenly, the room was much colder, it crawled up his spine as he curled up on the sofa. It had been six months since his faked suicide, and he still couldn’t get the hang of this lifestyle. He wasn’t a dependant person, he never was, but John had become his oxygen. 

_Imagine that..._

_John had become an element,_

_A part of Sherlock._

_Essential._

Exhaling a heavy breath, Sherlock thought that he could almost see the expelled carbon dioxide, as if it was mid-winter. His dressing gown slipped from his shoulder, revealing the thin fabric of his t-shirt. Finally standing from the sofa, Sherlock marched to his little bedroom and closed the door behind him. Basements were always cold, and being November, or course the temperature had started to drop. But the cold that Sherlock felt seemed to be rooted in the centre of his chest. 

He climbed onto his mattress, under the sheets as he shivered and curled into a fetal position. The shivering didn’t go away, it felt as if his bed, the floor, or even the earth was shaking with Sherlock’s resentment. Everything felt unsteady, it reminded him of the years he took drugs. He squeezed his eyes shut against the overwhelming sensations running through his body, coursing through his veins.                      

Then, with a sudden jolt, he sat up on the mattress, his sheets tangled around him and a thin layer of sweat over his skin. He tore off his dressing gown and glided his finger tips against the delicate skin on the inside of his arms. The muscles seemed to itch, the scars from needles were still visible years later. Sherlock touched the nail of his right index finger to a particularly ugly and prominent scar. That had been his sweet spot during his youth. Every injection had given him the most satisfaction when he found that vein. Sherlock bit his lower lip, smirking at the thought of the rush through his veins, the wonders it did to his brain. Of course, Sherlock hadn’t always been a Consulting Detective, but even as a young boy, his talents were of great value. He could hardly remember when or how he got his first needle, he deleted that memory a long time ago. But that itch was coming back, and if Sherlock didn’t get his fix soon… he didn’t know what he might do. He shook at the thought of the possibilities. 

Those scars had remained for a reason, and right now, the only reason could be that those wounds had wanted to be re-opened. They were _meant_ to be re-opened. Mycroft shouldn’t know, neither should Molly. This was private, personal, if anything, it would assist Sherlock in finding the assassin. 

Without getting dressed, Sherlock threw his jacket on. It was a different jacket, not long and flowing like his other one. He couldn’t be recognized, and he had the perfect supplies to help him hide his identity in public. 

It was already dark out, he knew where to find the right people, he knew London better than he knew his mother’s house. His disguise was ready, the stubble growing on his face and the darkness under his eyes would help hide his identity while the different clothes did the rest.

Sherlock creeped out of the basement flat, making his way down the dark and busy street. The itch in his veins had subsided for now, but soon he would have release. 


	8. Mary Morstan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Something about Mary Morstan seemed right, perfect even.
> 
> ...

John woke up well-rested each day, he’d had very few dreams about Moriarty or Sherlock during his first month at Harry’s. The nightmares weren’t often, but when they did come, they were disastrous and horrific. Life with Harry seemed better than he expected it to be. It was actually… pleasant. Of course, guilt and fear still suppressed him, but he let those feelings linger under a think layer of indifference. It had been a technique he learned in the military, something to help them to do their jobs without getting caught up in sentiment and worry. It helped get the job done, and even though John was good at suppressing his feelings, the morality in his soul made him a little softer than other’s working in the army. 

 

Harry’s house was quiet, she was already out at work. Sitting up in bed, John stretched his sore shoulder, the bullet wound still throbbed now and then. He picked out clothes from a neat pile and proceeded to shuffle toward the shower. 

Everyday was the same, very little action and excitement. Yet at the end of each day, it still surprised John with the way time seemed to fly. Nothing had changed, John familiarized himself with his new surroundings, and felt his limp begin to appear again. But John hadn’t noticed the return of his limp until Harry commented on it once, and soon after that conversation, she brought him a new cane to use. 

John hated the cane. It was such a bother to carry around. Of course it made walking easier and less painful, but John couldn’t help feeling like an old man. He even began to notice a few grey hairs mixing with his ashy blond hair. 

After washing up and limping out of the house, he locked the door and started walking down the street. As he turned out of Harry’s driveway, he noticed a woman from the house beside. She was working on her garden, bent down beside a rose bush. 

John was going to ignore her and continue walking when he heard his name being called out, “John! John Watson!”, turning toward the sound, John realized it was the woman. She was standing now, smiling at him as if she’d known him for years. John panicked for a moment, wondering if he had dated her in the past. 

“Hello!” he called back, limping toward her property and leaning on his cane. The woman met him half way, offering a hand in greeting. “I’m Mary Morstan. Harry told me that her brother is staying at her place, you must be him!” After a warm handshake, she dropped her hands to her sides, “She doesn’t have male visitors, so I hope you are indeed the brother she was talking about”.

John smiled back, he felt much better knowing that she wasn’t someone he used to date. There had been so many in the past that John didn’t remember half of them anymore. “Yes, I’m John Watson. Just staying over for awhile, some time away from home can be good. It’s been nice with Harry, we’re getting on much better now.”

“That’s great! I’m glad that she isn’t alone anymore. Ever since the divorce, Harry hasn’t been very sociable. But when you came by, she was so happy. She comes over to my place for a coffee now and then, you’re welcome to come by when you like,” She fiddled with her garden gloves, nervous. 

Mary’s nervousness spread to John. He felt his face warm up and he licked his lips. He realized that Mary had beautiful eyes, and the way that she fiddled with the gloves seemed really adorable, almost child-like. 

“I’d like that,” he replied, looking back at her, capturing her gaze. John started to feel tension grow, so he cleared his throat, “So, planting bulbs before the frost comes?” he jerked his head toward the garden.

Mary looked back at the garden, pushing a bit of golden hair out of her face. 

_She was really pretty…_

“Yes, it’s a little late in the year, but it was better to get it done today. It’s my day off, I go back to work tomorrow.”

“Where do you work?”

“I’m a tutor at the primary school a couple blocks from here.”

“That’s nice, you like working with children?”

“Yes, I’ve always worked well with children, and I enjoy helping them learn. What do you do?”

“I’m a doctor,” John replied, shifting his feet and standing a little straighter. Mary bit her lip, “Would you like to come inside for a coffee. It’s a little chilly out. We wouldn’t want to catch a cold. Besides, I don’t have anymore gardening to do for today”.

John licked his lips again, “Sure, just don’t mind me. My bloody leg has been acting up lately.”

With that, John followed Mary into the warmth of her little home. It was petite and gentle in it’s appearance, much like Mary’s persona. 

_He was in Mary’s house._

_He was in the house of a beautiful and charming woman._  

His heart fluttered, and as they talked, he felt like this could be a wonderful start to a friendship- relationship… _something_. Little did John know what this would become. 

 

Something about Mary Morstan seemed right, perfect even. Soon, John was spending evenings at Mary’s, sometimes Harry came along too. Though as Mary and John’s relationship began to deepen, Harry seemed to find an excuse to leave them alone. She’d wink at John with a sneaky smile  and a whisper of “She’s a keeper”. John realized that this relationship with Mary was what he needed right now, he felt complete again. His limp remained, but he thought little of it. Mary had become a new chapter of his life.

 

Without really making it official, John found that Mary and him were already a couple. They went on walks together, hand in hand. Mary told John all about her job, her hobbies, her dreams and ambitions. John told Mary about Afghanistan and working at the clinic, but he never once mentioned Sherlock or his life at 221B Baker Street or Moriarty. He would have liked to think that he’d forgotten that part of his life, running around London with Sherlock Holmes, his best friend. Solving crimes and saving lives, saving Sherlock’s life many times. All of these memories called out to John, it made him feel like a liar, as if he was hiding the biggest part of his life, his whole existence even. He hadn’t wanted to hide that, but it was painful to talk about, think about. It was better if Mary didn’t know...

 

One evening, just days into December, John and Mary were sitting together on her love-seat. They were holding hands, Mary leaned against John as they watched television. A murder mystery program was on, Mary loved those. John was a little uncomfortable with those shows, but he never said anything. 

_He loved Mary so much._

But tonight, in particular, he felt a little edgy and frustrated. The murder case on the program was about a cabbie who killed the people he drove. A fresh memory of “A Study in Pink” came to mind. John could almost feel his fingers typing about the case on his blog. 

_Mary didn’t know about the blog._

_Mary didn’t know about Sherlo-_

_Shut up!_

John needed a detraction, he needed to get away from the memories. He could almost hear the gunshot as it flew into the cabbie’s chest, missing Sherlock’s body by a few inches. He could still hear the loud echo of his voice as he called out to Sherlock from a parallel window in the building beside, watching a man he hardly knew hold the little pill up to the light, ready to risk his life, to take a chance. John could almost feel the rush of adrenaline from running through the London streets with Sherlock, catching up to the cab… he hadn’t needed his cane that night. He could almost remember the second that he lay eyes on Sherlock Holmes in the lab at St. Barts hospital, those strange eyes of his…  

_Like Mary’s eyes._

_But more intense._

_Wait…_

_What colour were Sherlock’s eyes?_

_Blue?_

_Green?_

_Grey?_

_But… Mary’s eyes were just green…_

“John?” he heard faintly beside him, turning his head, he looked into Mary’s eyes. 

_Green._

_Like Sherlo- Shut up!_

“Mhmm?” John replied, biting his lip as he felt her breath fall on his face. He looked down at her lips. Her full lips. Untainted by any lipstick. God, he hated the mess that lipstick made. He’d dated women who wore too much lipstick, he hated kissing lips that were covered in that sticky red colour. The smudges that lipstick left on his face were unbearable. But it was nice that Mary didn’t worry about lipstick. She looked beautiful without it.

 _Those full lips_ … _Like Sherlo-_

_No!_

_Mary._

_Not Sherlock, this was Mary._

John loved Mary. John wanted Mary to love him back. He wanted to kiss her, hold her.

 _Why was Sherlock still looking at him with those eyes-_ No! 

_THIS IS MARY._

_NOT SHERLOCK._

“John?” Mary touched his face, her palm was soft and warm against his cheek. 

_Yes, this was Mary. Soft, beautiful Mary Morstan._

Before another thought, John closed the distance between them, he kissed Mary, felt her soft lips against his. God, John had missed this. He’d missed kissing.

_He missed Sherlock._

_No._

_This wasn’t about Sherlock._

John deepened the kiss, holding Mary in his arms. She didn’t pull away, she wanted this too. But something was wrong about this. Mary didn’t deserve John. After all, the only reason that John had kissed her was the abandon his thoughts of Sherlock. 

_What if he kissed Sherlock?_

_No._

_He’d never kiss Sherlock._

_Sherlock was his flat mate, his partner, his friend._

_But nothing more…_

_Except dead._

John was fighting a battle between possibility and reality. 

_But was it really possibility?_

He had just thought about kissing Sherlock Holmes, that _wasn’t_ possible. Reality was here and now, _Mary_ was kissing him. This was _reality_. 

_Not Sherlock._

_Reality._

_Reality was much better._

_Possibility was much too pliable, distrustful._

Mary was the one to break away, her breathing was fast and so was her heart rate. John could feel the fast pulse in her neck where his hand lay. He pulled away, trying to get oxygen back. He felt his face flush. “Sorry about that,” he said in a breathless voice. 

But when he looked back at Mary, she didn’t look sorry, she looked happy. She smiled and put her hands to his face to cover the blush that had rose to his skin. “John… kiss me again,” he breathed a laugh, and before she could say anything more, he was kissing her again.

 

Later that night, John entered Harry’s home, he could hear the television on in the other room. 

“John?” She called, sounding a little sleepy, “How’s Mary?” He took off his coat and walked into the living room down the hall. He sat in a chair beside the couch where Harry was spread out, he leaned the bloody cane against his leg.

“She’s fine, we had a great time.” John smiled, but there was a little bit of unease behind his expression. The influx of strange thoughts of Sherlock had bewildered him a lot, as soon as that seed had taken root, it was difficult to de-root. 

Harry sat up from the couch and looked at John with a sly smile. “Did you kiss her?” she asked with excitement in her voice. John looked back with a blush coming to his face. “Uh… yeah” he mumbled, looking at the floor, he played with his clammy fingers. He nearly jumped at Harry’s squeal, it sounded so odd coming from his sister’s mouth. 

“I _knew_ it!” She jumped up and pulled her brother into a bone-crushing hug. John laughed, trying to let his strange thoughts dissipate and dissolve to nothing. “You see, John, I can do a little deducing of my own!” She knew the reference to Sherlock might sting, but she wanted to test him, see if he was getting better without actually asking directly, and John could see right through her. 

“Oh, _really_ ,” he replied with a similar sly smile. 

Harry stood before him, arms crossed and her nose in the air. “Your hair is ruffled in the same way it would be if someone had run their hands through it. I know it couldn’t be you who did that, because you would never ruffle your hair, the military as made you very neat and clean-cut. Also, I remember your teenage years where you’d arrive late at night, embarrassment on your face and your hair and clothes dishevelled. Coincidentally, you came home in similar disarray Therefore, you must have snogged Mary.” Harry bowed, and backed away to take a seat again, John complimented her deduction and then flattened his hair nervously. 

“You know… I think you really love that girl. And I’m happy that you kissed her,” Harry looked at John with full honesty in her expression, she reached a hand to his shoulder and squeezed. John tried to respond with something… _anything_. His mouth was dry, he knew that he loved Mary, but something was keeping him from believing it. He didn’t understand how he could be so sure of his feelings until tonight. Something had changed, something very small had shifted his whole perspective and he didn’t like it. He felt like something was screwing with his mind, an itch he couldn’t scratch. He wanted to take a scalpel and carve a deep incision into his soul, find that seed before it grew into a spreading weed. He didn’t know what to call it. 

“John, I’m going to bed. See you in the morning,” Harry stood up and ruffled his hair on the way to the staircase. Flattening his hair again, John stalked towards the kitchen. He opened every cupboard and drawer, looking for some form of alcohol until he remembered that Harry wouldn’t have it anymore. John became desperate very quickly as he looked in every possible hiding place he could think of. Harry _had_ to have a secret supply for emergencies _somewhere_.

Just as John was going to give up with exhaustion, he found a small bottle of wine. It looked expensive and unopened, but John needed something. After pulling the cork, he poured a large glass of the red liquid. John had never been much of a drinker, he got turned off of alcohol after seeing what it did to his father and his sister. Of course he still drank at formal dinners and parties, but it wasn’t something he enjoyed much. Even as he took a testing sip, he had to keep himself from throwing the rest of the wine into the sink. Harry would throw him out of her house in seconds if she found out that he poured expensive wine down the drain. 

After a few more sips, John got used to the taste and took the bottle and glass to the guest bedroom. The thoughts of Sherlock that had arisen and lingered that evening were soon forgotten as he got closer to the bottom of the bottle. The next morning, John would wake up with a hangover, and Harry wouldn’t know about the disappearance of the little expensive wine bottle that she kept hidden under the sink.


	9. Good For Brainwork

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John.
> 
> John.
> 
> John.
> 
> John.
> 
> ...

Sherlock celebrated New Years Eve by thrusting another needle in his arm. He was alone, his room was a mess, but he was on to something.

Maps of London, of the United Kingdom, of Europe were littered on the walls, the floor, his bed. He sat in the centre of the mattress, a few used needles were on the nightstand. As he injected the last millimetre of liquid into his veins, his heart rate skyrocketed, equations and elements whirled around in his head. Everything flashed before him, almost too fast for the great Sherlock Holmes. 

He didn’t know the time, or even what day it was. He only left the basement to get more drugs, it was a risk he was willing to take. Of course Mycroft knew, he knew _everything_. Molly hand tried to overlook Sherlock’s renewed drug addiction, but it was becoming more and more difficult to take care of him. He never slept, never ate, and he always seemed to be zoned out. He didn’t even acknowledge her visits anymore. Sometimes he’d figure something out and call for John but than forget that he wasn’t here anymore. He didn’t ask Molly about Mrs. Hudson or Lestrade. He didn’t ask about John, but with every quick breath he took into his lungs, John seemed to be the only word he said again and again. It was like a mantra, something to give him initiative.  

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Molly had tried to tell Sherlock about John’s new relationship with Mary Morstan, but she could never get his attention for long enough. He had become hollowed out, skin and bones. His eyes were dark and almost animal-like in their appearance. Molly became a sort of nurse, she left food around the room, even if he didn’t eat it. She’d sedate him and pull his unconscious, limp body into the bathtub once a week for a bath. He slept at times, but very little. It was a miracle that Sherlock was still alive at this rate. Of course she constantly worried about him, it interrupted her work and home life. She’d had one boyfriend since Sherlock’s drug frenzy, but that guy left her soon after he discovered that she didn’t seem to have any free time. Dating would be put on hold until Sherlock smartened up, Mycroft had a backup plan in case Sherlock took a turn for the worse, but Molly was still hoping he’d pull himself together soon. Molly always had room for hope, she was always optimistic. 

 

_There was a dark room. It was cold, quiet… too quiet. Sherlock could only hear his footsteps on the floor. Then there was a small water drop sound coming from the right. A window let in a little light, not much, but enough for Sherlock to see his surroundings in the small room. Where was he?_

_It looked like their flat. At Baker Street. But something was different, it looked too different. Where was John?_

_“John?” he called out, not very loud, but loud enough to echo throughout the sitting room. Sherlock quickly recognized the room, it made him feel a little more secure. He looked at the spray painted smiley face on the wall to his right, the bullet holes, the victorian patterned wallpaper. Looking to his left, he saw the chairs, the bookshelf, the mirror on the wall. He walked up to the mirror, looked at his reflection. The image was distorted, the glass in the mirror was cracked, shattered._

_Strange..._

_Sherlock heard something coming from his room, he turned toward the sound. He knew that he had heard something, but he didn’t know what it had been. He could feel his heart rate begin to quicken as he stepped through the kitchen, into the hall towards his bedroom. The door was partly open, a little sliver of natural light shone through._

_Raising a cold and pale hand to the doorknob, he turned the handle carefully, slowly. He stepped into the room and looked at the bed to his left._

_“John,” he whispered, feeling his heart fall in his chest, his breathing stopped. He stared, wide-eyed, at his best friend, pinned to the bed with a gun to his head. A man was crouched over him, a man from Mycroft’s files. The assassin. John’s assassin. Sherlock looked up at the stranger, he felt a lump rise in his throat as thought of something to say, a way to reason with the man._

_“You’re not dead,” the man said, his voice was rough and angry. But there was a smile on his face. Sherlock looked back at John who had obviously been surprised by Sherlock’s return. John had thought that he was dead, and now John was the one facing death. A solitary tear rolled down John’s face, he looked so scared, Sherlock was supposed to save him._

_“I’m not a hero, John,” Sherlock spoke, tears rolling down his own face, his hands raised in surrender._

_There was a gunshot._

 

“John!” Sherlock cried as he pushed at someone’s body against him. He released himself and stumbled backwards, falling onto the ground with a loud thump. 

“Sherlock! I was trying to help you! Are you alright?” It was Molly, she sounded worried, terrified by Sherlock’s reaction. Sherlock sat up from the floor of his basement room, his body was shaking with sobs. 

“I need to save John!” he mumbled as he tried to stand, only to fall back to the ground. Molly looked so tired and worn out, she pulled at him to sitting up. Then she circled her arms around his chest, holding him tightly as he struggled.

“Sherlock… John’s fine, he’s safe. You just had a dream, John’s fine. You’re fine.” She tried to sound calm but her voice was starting to break. Sherlock continued to cry in her arms, giving up his fight and leaning his weight onto her. 

“He was at the flat… He had John… He killed John!” Sherlock didn’t calm down for awhile. But when he finally gave in to the sleeping pills Molly gave him, she put him back to bed and sorted his bedroom. Molly stayed in his sitting room until she had to leave for work in the morning. 

 

“John!” Sherlock gasped, panting and sweating. He was tangled in bed sheets this time, the maps from his mattress were moved, and the empty needles were no longer on his nightstand. Another nightmare. He didn’t know which one had been worse. Molly must have been there earlier to straighten up the place and sedate him so he could get some sleep. He rolled over gently towards his alarm clock, it was New Years Day and he had limited memory of the events from last night. 

_How had he even fallen asleep?_

_He was supposed to work through the night._

Sherlock was very close to finding the first assassin. Lestrade’s assassin. Turning on the bedroom lamp, he squinted up at the maps on the walls. He had to keep going.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Each heartbeat, each breath he exhaled was John. The sooner he finished this, the sooner he’d have his John back. 

_His oxygen._

_Had he really just said “His John”, “His oxygen”?_

The flavour of those words in his mind were not bitter or strange… just an acquired taste. Something to get used to. Only a year ago, he was in his flat, New Years morning. John had woken him up with breakfast made. They ate together, but there was silence.

_Oh._

_Right._

It was right after John found out that Irene Adler was alive. Sherlock had known that she wasn’t dead from the moment he saw the body in the morgue. Of course the measurements on the body were off, it was someone else entirely, but Sherlock lied. 

_Lies came easy to him, he lived off of lies._

_So many lies._

_And quite literally, in fact._

John had been cheerful, but there was an underlying feeling of anxiety under his relaxed and happy demeanour. And he never told John what he knew. He didn’t think it would matter. But John’s reaction to Irene’s reveal surprised him. John seemed out of sorts, spooked, thoughtful…

Sherlock never asked John about what Irene said to him on that day in the abandoned warehouse. He didn’t think it was important. So Sherlock played the violin for most of the day, sticking to Christmas carols and familiar classical music. _They didn’t mention Irene..._

Sherlock came back to the present, alone and broken in this humbling state. He looked down at the scars and puncture marks running along his arms, he shivered. The rush and need for cocaine would return at some point, but for now, it was best to continue his hunt. 

_Priorities: John_

Sherlock breathed out, remembering finally what had awoken him from his sleep just moments ago. 

_He had had a dream, John was with a woman._

_A beautiful woman for that matter._

_Someone who had long flowing hair, rich and young features, a heart that would love John and treat him well._

_She was everything that John had ever wanted in a woman, a companion._

_A name came to mind… Mary?_

_Who was Mary?_

 

_The dream got worse when Sherlock realized he was in the same room as the couple, they didn’t see him there._

_Sherlock was invisible to them._

_But before he could analyze this scene with further detail, John was kissing Mary. Sherlock had felt something boil up in his chest, and realized there was a gun in his hand._

_Without a second thought, he pulled the trigger, killing the dream character named “Mary”._

_There was blood all over John, his lips were still wet from their kiss and he looked horrified as he noticed Sherlock’s presence._

_John had started panicking, crying, he yelled at Sherlock, asking him why he had killed her._

_Sherlock felt upset, shocked by his own behaviour._

_He had dropped the gun as if it weighed as much as a ton of bricks._

_He went towards John to comfort him, but John told him to go away._

_John told Sherlock that he had ruined his life._

_Taken away everything that John had ever cared about._

_Then John told him to never come back._

_And Sherlock shrunk back in fear, alone… a freak, a machine._

_But it was only a dream._

_Sherlock had to remember that._

_But when he saw the blood on John’s face…_

_It reminded him of the other dream he had that night._

_The assassin had killed John._

_Sherlock watched._

_Sherlock saw the hole in his head, the blood._

_So much blood…_

Sherlock felt the panic rise in his chest again. Would he ever kill someone who John loved? Would he ever watch John die?

His moment of insecurity was interrupted by his cell-phone. Sherlock didn’t get any calls or texts anymore. Everyone thought he was dead. But in an instant, he knew who had just sent him a text. Though he couldn’t get his hopes up…

Walking over towards the phone on his nightstand, he looked at the most recent message.

_I don’t want to forget you. JW_

Sherlock looked down at the simple message, he felt an unfamiliar ache in the centre of his chest. It was a melting feeling, a damaged feeling. It was accompanied by a flutter of relief. 

 _Strange_. Again, another acquired taste for Sherlock to understand. Now, more than ever, he wanted to reply. In fact, he did.

_I will never forget you. SH_

But instead of pressing reply, Sherlock erased his text and threw his phone onto the messy bed. Without a second thought, he pulled off his worn t-shirt, then pulled down his pyjama pants. Walking into the washroom, he looked himself over in the blotchy stand-up mirror. It was the first time he had looked at himself in… well… a long time. And though he didn’t care much these days, he didn’t like what he saw. 

Sherlock’s hair was clumped up and messy, standing up at odd angles. Moving to his face, he noticed the darkness surrounding his eyes from lack of sleep. He cheeks were hollowed out, the bones in his face had become much more prominent over the past few months. The stubble that had grown on his face was starting to become more like a beard. His gaze then moved to his torso, bones were easy to see through the thin layer of skin. His arms were a mess from needles and scars. He then looked down his legs, the muscle he had before from running around London was now gone, he was all skin and bones.

Without dwelling on his poor appearance any longer, he climbed into the shower and washed his skin clean of sweat, blood and even tears. It felt good to be clean, refreshed. As if he had washed away the agony from last night, the agony that he held within himself all these months. 

When he stepped out of the tub, he wrapped a towel round his waist and went back to his room to organized the maps. His eyes lingered on his cocaine supply. 

_Maybe just one injection._

_Only one._

_It would help._

And as soon as the thin needle tip slipped through his skin, he felt release, he felt invigorated and ready. The nightmares were forgotten. But one thing remained.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Every beat of his heart said that name, over and over. He got dressed and then moved towards a map. It didn’t take long for him to sketch out his route to the assassin’s hideout. He drew a red line in marker along the map, his heart rate pounded, he was so close to finding that bastard.

But just as he was rounding a corner on the map with the red line, there was a knock at the main-door. He realized that he had hit a dead end.

_Damn._

Sherlock grabbed the used needle and threw it in the bin as he strode towards the door. He turned the handle to find Mycroft on the other side, a stern expression and look of disgust on his face. He could see that Sherlock had just taken a dose a few minutes ago.

Sherlock scowled at his brother and moved away from the door, going back to the map on the floor. He crouched over the red trail, wondering where he went wrong...

Mycroft took slow steps toward the map and looked over Sherlock’s shoulder with curiosity. He handed some new files to Sherlock and studied the map himself.

Sherlock took the papers and scanned over them as he sat on the sofa. Mycroft’s men had found five groups of employees over the past several months. That was impressive considering how slow they usually were.

“You’ve missed something,” Mycroft mumbled as he straighten and turned towards his brother. Sherlock look up at Mycroft with frustration. 

_Brilliant, Mycroft, how could you tell?_

Mycroft stepped closer, his hands behind his back and a smug smile on his face, “Did you ever open that envelop that I gave you?”

Sherlock looked back at him with confusion that slowly shifted to realization. 

_Oh._

_Mycroft had brought that envelop here a few months ago._

_Where could it-_

“No…” Sherlock stood from the sofa and crouched, a hand disappearing under the cushions. Soon, he withdrew the envelop. It was bent in one corner and covered with lint and dust, but as Sherlock slid open the paper, he found the documents inside to look perfectly fine.

Mycroft breathed a laugh and looked back down at the map on the floor, “You haven’t changed, dear brother. You still overlook the most obvious of clues. Inside you will find all the personal information belonging to Assassin Number One. Any and all of that information can be used against him and make it much easier to find the next assassin. This map is quite good, but you’re missing the exact building location. When I gave you that envelop, I expected this to happen, but I must say that you still work pretty quick… even with the use of harsh drugs.”

Sherlock ignored the rest of Mycroft’s comments about his lifestyle choices and strategies, instead, he looked through the papers. Everything was here, but there was still more to solve. Even though Mycroft had assisted Sherlock in finding information and tracking down minor employees from Moriarty’s web, Mycroft would never give Sherlock a straight answer. Not even Mycroft knew all the answers they had been looking for. Moriarty would never make the game that easy.

“Any news?” Sherlock asked to change to subject. Mycroft was still trying to give Sherlock a lecture about drug use, but it would be no good. Sherlock never listened to anyone.

Mycroft came to sit in a chair across from Sherlock, he folded his hands together and cleared his throat. “Well, it looks like Greg Lestrade may get his job back by mid-April at this rate. Nothing is written in stone, but I’ve… discussed things with the bosses back at Scotland Yard and they seemed to like my offer-”

“Meaning that you threatened them…” Sherlock interrupted with a grin, crossing his arms. 

“Precisely… also, we’ve been getting new leads on who the second assassin could be. There’s no harm in working ahead. The world doesn’t know of Moriarty’s death yet, thankfully, so we’ve been working on ways to trick Moriarty’s employees into thinking he is still alive and well, but in hiding since your suicide.” Sherlock, staring off into space. His heart rate was still quite fast since his recent injection. He tried to hide his energy by tapping his foot, but it was obvious that Mycroft understood Sherlock’s movements completely.

“Mrs. Hudson?” Sherlock asked as worry coloured his tone by mistake. Mycroft smiled at Sherlock’s worry, relieved that his little bother even _had_ emotions. “She’s fine. Still at Baker Street with not a worry in the world. She visits your grave every week, brings new flowers. A beautiful assortment, if you saw the way she’s been affected, you’d feel less sorry for John.”

Sherlock felt cold at Mycroft’s words, that _stung_. Of course Sherlock had felt guilty about Mrs. Hudson, she had been more of a mother than Sherlock’s biological mother ever was. And how could Mycroft compare her to _John_. Sherlock had to look away from Mycroft’s cruel gaze in order to compose himself. Breathing was still rapid. If Mycroft read Sherlock’s thoughts much closer, he’d hear:

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Mycroft laughed and Sherlock fell out of his drugged stupor. He glared at his brother, wondering if he actually _had_ read his mind. “It really astounds me that you care so deeply about Dr. Watson,” Mycroft continued cruelly. “Have you developed _feelings_ for the doctor?”

_That was it._

Sherlock jumped up and gripped Mycroft by the collar of his jacket. He tried to muster all the hatred and anger he could, but it didn’t translate well on his features. Mycroft found him even _more_ amusing.

“How _dare_ you,” Sherlock growled through his teeth, tempted to punch Mycroft then and there. Sherlock had never gotten upset about the comments people made about him and John, implying that they were in a relationship. John was the one to fuss about it. Sherlock didn’t find it worth his frustration, also, he didn’t mind the observations and “accusations” from others. Mycroft found it even more amusing. “Do you think you could hide it all this time? It’s been obvious from the start. I can _see_ things, Sherlock. I observe more than you _ever_ could. When did you discover that you had deeper feelings for the doctor? When you stood on that rooftop? Ready to say goodbye with the possibility of never seeing him again?” There was a playfulness and cruelty in Mycroft’s voice that made Sherlock feel numb, made him want to hide in his room. 

_To tell the truth, Sherlock had no idea when he first discovered his feelings for John._

_Maybe they were never there._

_Maybe they were always there._

“It’s too late, you know,” Mycroft said a little brokenly, yet still maintaining his stance. “John’s moved on. He has someone new. A woman who can love him back. _Properly_.” Sherlock felt his eyes widen and his adrenaline soar through his system.

_No._

_God. Please. No._

“Her name is Mary. Mary Morstan, a neighbour of Harriet Watson’s, a primary school tutor.”

_Mary._

_Mary Morstan._

Sherlock didn’t know what to retort back, he felt his heart fall in his chest. 

This was reality, kicking him into shape again.

Possibility had lost this round. 

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John…_

Mycroft watched Sherlock fall apart before his own eyes. Sherlock collapsed into a broken pile. He wasn’t crying. He wasn’t even shaking.

He just stared at the floor under his hands and knees, silent as the grave. 

_John._

_John._

_JOHN._

_JOHN._

Everything was screaming inside Sherlock’s head, he crawled towards the bin and vomited whatever happened to be in his stomach. His arms were itching, his head was spinning. A cold sweat broke out on his skin as he coughed into the bin.

Opening his eyes for a moment, he focused on the used needle lying on the bottom of the bin, sprayed with the contents of Sherlock’s stomach.

A voice was speaking to him, it was over him, holding him together in this dreamlike state. It was a voice like music, so safe and close. He hadn’t heard that voice in so long. It sounded so weak because Sherlock was starting to forget what it sounded like. 

_I don’t want to forget you._

Sherlock wanted to reach up and touch the face of the speaker. He wanted to kiss those lips, caress him and drink in the smell of his skin.

_I will never forget you._

It was the last thing that Sherlock thought before a heavy weight pushed down on his chest and darkness surrounded him. The voice was just a memory now…


	10. The Whole Truth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First, he’d have to tell Mary about Sherlock.
> 
> Then, he’d have to talk to Mycroft.
> 
> And finally, John could live his life with Mary and hopefully move on past this odd turn of events. 
> 
> ...

_John was running again._

_Maybe this time, he could catch Sherlock as he fell from the rooftop._

_Maybe he could break the fall, save him._

_He ran as fast as he could, his legs felt so heavy, his lungs burned so much._

_Sherlock._

_I’m here._

_The distance still seemed too long, Sherlock was falling too fast._

_There would be no possible way for Sherlock to survive that fall…_

_No possible way for John to catch him._

_The tears were already starting to cloud John’s vision as he began to fall forward onto the cold hard concrete._

_There was no biker this time._

_After looking up from the ground, his palms still glued to the ground beneath him._

_He didn’t see Sherlock falling anymore._

_Wait… Sherlock wasn’t on the concrete either._

_And John couldn’t stand up, he was prostrate on the concrete, he felt hot fluid roll down past his ear, down his forehead._

_Someone was standing over him, a gun was in their hand, still smoking from the tip._

_John felt weak, tired, he wanted to close his eyes and sleep._

_There was laughing, it was from the stranger with the gun._

_Wait… It was one of the men from a file Mycroft gave John._

_One of the assassins after Sherlock._

_But… he was standing over John now._

_John was the… target?_

_Where was Sherlock?_

_Why hadn’t he saved him?_

_Was this how it would end?_

_“Sherlock,” John said with difficulty._

_He felt cold now, numb and shaking all over._

_But he couldn’t move still._

_His hands were glued at the sides of his head against the concrete._

_There was a smell of iron, the warm liquid was now dripping from his face, clouding his vision with red and pooling around him._

_Blood._

_The gun…_

_The man…_

_John got shot._

_“John!” someone cried behind John, running toward him._

_John couldn’t see the person running to him, but he recognized the voice._

_“Sherlock…” John said again, much quieter this time._

_The man above him didn’t laugh anymore. He grunted above John and made a clicking sound with the gun._

_“John!” Sherlock cried as he fell to John’s side._

_John felt his body being lifted, the hot liquid rolled down into his mouth and he struggled to spit it out._

_He could almost see Sherlock’s face above him._

_Sherlock was crying, brushing away, what must have been blood, from John’s face._

_John started to feel the hole in the back of his skull, he felt so open, so exposed._

_Was he dying?_

_“John, stay with me!” Sherlock said above him, holding him close._

_John wanted to speak, but something was preventing him from moving._

_He was… paralyzed._

_There was another loud bang._

_Before he could think or feel anymore, he felt himself fall away._

_It was dark and quiet._

_Sherlock was gone._

 

John woke up shaking, his face was wet from something hot… another warm liquid. But this time, it was tears, not blood. John clutched at his sheets, it was so dark and quiet in his room. The only light was coming from a crack in the drapes, it was moonlight. John felt like everything was so real, he couldn’t convince himself that it was only a dream until he touched the back of his head. There was no hole there, no blood. 

_It was just a dream._

_A very real dream._

John sat up and felt for the light switch. Turning it on, he blinked and squinted his eyes which were still swollen from crying. “Sherlock,” he whispered as he glared at his surroundings. He almost forgot that he was in the guest room at his sister’s house, not at Baker Street. 

If this were Baker Street, and Sherlock was still alive, John might have gone downstairs to sit beside Sherlock’s bedroom door. He’d done it a few times during his time with Sherlock. When he had the really terrible dreams about the war, he’d sit outside Sherlock’s bedroom door and fight off sleep. Something about being a little closer to another human-being comforted him. As a child, he’d go to Harry’s room, or his parents room after a bad dream. Most of the time, it was Harry, because his parents were not as soft as other parents might be with their young children. 

A couple nights, as he sat outside Sherlock’s bedroom door, Sherlock would find him, and without a word, Sherlock would pull his dressing gown over his shoulders and pull John up from the ground. They’d go to the sofa and Sherlock would make tea. It was one of the odd times where Sherlock had actually done something for John. It was comforting, and in the middle of the night, there hadn’t been any misconceptions about Sherlock’s unusually kind behaviour or motives. In the morning, Sherlock and John wouldn’t mention the display of kindness and affection. Sherlock wouldn’t tease John about the nightmares, and John wouldn’t tease Sherlock about comforting him. 

_It was give and take._

_It worked._

_They worked._

 John smiled at the memories, it had eased away the pain of his most recent nightmare. Though the memories were _also_ nice, they brought a bitter taste to John’s mouth. 

_Sherlock._

_He missed Sherlock so much._

Of course John wouldn’t go to his sister’s room tonight. She’d laugh at him, think he was being childish. They were adults now, he couldn’t do that anymore.

_Sherlock wouldn’t have teased him about it._

_In fact, John didn’t think Sherlock minded childish behaviour at all._

_Did he even recognize it?_

_Sherlock had been so childish in his ways that he probably never regarded John’s visits as “childish”._

Taking deep breathes, John drank some of the water from the glass on his nightstand. It would ease the bad taste in his mouth. John didn’t sleep anymore that night, instead, he thought about the files that Mycroft had given him before Sherlock’s death. He felt like the information about those assassins was important.

_How could they be important now that Sherlock was dead?_

_After all, they were watching Sherlock, not John._

_But was John being watched?_

Those thoughts had haunted him for awhile. He’d have to pay closer attention to his surroundings. He could never be too careful… especially since Moriarty _had_ to be out there… somewhere.

 

John had loved all the time he spent with Mary, but there were many times that he had to distance himself. Mary understood, but not completely, because she didn’t know the whole reason for John’s grief. He had told her that it was memories of war in Afghanistan, which had been partly true… but John had become very occupied with the thoughts of his recent dreams, and thoughts about the files that collected dust at 221B Baker Street. 

Mycroft had told him that he shouldn’t worry about Jim Moriarty. With his place in the British government, Mycroft could easily rid of Moriarty for good. He assured John that moving on and forgetting about that insane manic was best, after all, it was the least he could do after giving Moriarty all the ammunition he needed to bring down Sherlock. But John still had a nagging fear that he was still being watched.

John was a military man. He wasn’t as stupid as Mycroft had played him to be. John had instinct on his side, he knew when something was up. Of course he wasn’t perfect, sometimes he was slow to see the truth sneak up on him, but he learned to be cautious, especially around the time of Moriarty’s trial. John should have nothing to worry about, he should completely trust Mycroft. But there was nothing wrong with keeping an eye out. Being more observant was a skill he’d have to concentrate on now.

_First, he’d have to tell Mary about Sherlock._

_Then, he’d have to talk to Mycroft._

_And finally, John could live his life with Mary and hopefully move on past this odd turn of events._

 

John knocked at Mary’s door and she welcomed him inside a couple seconds later. John pulled her into a hug and planted a soft kiss on her lips. Mary responded and smiled against his lips. 

Parting away, Mary looked up at John with so much affection in her eyes, John had never seen so much love in a  woman’s eyes before. It made him feel secure, needed, happy.

_John hadn’t been this happy in awhile…_

Mary brought him to her living room and sat him down. He admired the way she walked with so much elegance and grace, she wasn’t even dressed in formal wear, but John _still_ felt underdressed in his jeans and green jumper. 

Mary curled up next to him and held his hands, she looked at him with a little concern and comfort. John had told her that he wanted to talk to her about something this evening, something that would help him get better. Mary was prepared to hear anything, and she was a naturally open-minded and sincere person. She wanted to help John get better, she hated to see him close himself in, hide his pain.

“Okay…” John began, he squeezed her hands in his own and smiled at her, “I wanted to talk to you tonight about my life before coming to Harry’s place. A life that doesn’t involve Afghanistan. Something that I haven’t told you about before because I wasn’t ready…”

“Go head, love,” Mary said reassuringly and patiently. John felt so calm and ready, this had become the perfect moment to tell her about Sherlock Holmes and his life at 221B Baker Street.

John started with telling her about his meeting with Mike Stamford, how he wanted to share a flat to save money. He told Mary about meeting Sherlock Holmes, the only Consulting Detective in the world. She listened carefully and eagerly, only interrupting him twice to ask questions. John felt a little panicked at first, but opened up when she responded well. 

He told her about life at Baker Street, the cases, his friendship with Sherlock. She looked at him with worry when he talked about Sherlock’s death, she squeezed his hand when he tried to tell her about his secret mourning. When he finished, she pulled him into a hug and told him how she admired the way he talked about Sherlock, how proud she was that John had been so brave during this ordeal. She told him how she admired his friendship with Sherlock and would have loved to know the man. 

The conversation eased John incredibly. He felt so light, happy, talking about Sherlock had helped him move forward in his grieving process. He felt so much love for Mary, he was so happy to have met her, to have told her about all of this. He was overjoyed that she understood and supported him in every way. 

_Was it even possible that a woman could be this perfect?_

John felt, in that moment that he had found someone with whom he could share the rest of his life with. In that moment, he wished that he could propose to Mary, ask her to marry him before something so perfect could slip from his fingers.

_Just as Sherlock had slipped through his fingers…_

_Falling to the concrete..._

After their heartfelt talk, they held each other and kissed. They kissed for awhile yet it felt like only a few minutes. Then Mary stood from the sofa and took John’s hand. John followed her to the bedroom where they made love and then talked and laughed together for hours. Time ran by. It was almost dawn when Mary fell asleep under John’s arm, he watched her breathe, her chest rising and falling beautifully. He could feel her heartbeat, the sound was so comforting. They slept together in each other’s arms, content, and John never realized that he had no nightmares that night.

 

In the late morning, they woke up within minutes of each other. John played with Mary’s blond hair, looking at how it became gold in the light from the window. Mary smiled at him, told him that she loved him. And to John’s surprise, he told her that he loved her too.

They stayed in bed a little longer, kissing. John mind was reeling. Images flashed through his head. 

_Proposing with a diamond ring, having Mary say yes._

_Watching her come down the aisle, she’s glowing, beautiful._

_That first kiss as a married couple._

_John and Mary Watson._

_That sounded nice…_

_A little house, just outside of London._

_They could live close to Harry._

_A son. He’d be named Sherlock._

_Such an odd name, so unique._

_Sherlock..._

 

_What would have happened if things went differently?_

_John wouldn’t know Mary…_

_But Sherlock would still be alive…_

 

_Sherlock would still be alive..._


	11. Hide and Seek

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Come out, come out, wherever you are!
> 
> ...

*

“Sherlock?” John’s voice was soft, quiet, coming from their hotel room door. Sherlock pretended to be asleep already as he heard John close the door behind him and sit on his bed beside Sherlock’s, the springs in John’s mattress grunted under his weight. 

_They were in Dartmoor._

_The little hotel near Baskerville._

Sherlock kept his breathing regular, his body was turned toward the window that was located on the left side of his small bed. John was behind him, to the right of his bed. Sherlock didn’t want John to know that he was awake, but he kept his eyes open, listening to John’s movements. He had left the dim lamp on before John entered, it provided enough light for John to change into his pyjamas easier. 

_They had had a fight earlier._

_Sherlock had yelled at John._

_Sherlock had told John that he “didn’t have friends”._

_John was hurt by that statement._

_John walked away._

_Probably to get some air._

_That was his frequented excuse._

Of course Sherlock felt terrible as soon as the words left his mouth. He _really_ hadn’t thought that one through. Of course Sherlock didn’t understand emotions, he didn’t realize that that statement would hurt John so much. But it wasn’t hard to notice the way that John’s face fell, the way that he walked out of the room. Sherlock felt guilt consume him. After texting John about Henry’s therapist, he went directly to bed. He hoped that all would be forgotten, forgiven. Sherlock didn’t like the way that relationships got messy. Hurting John would hurt their friendship, and even though Sherlock didn’t want to care about friendships, he cared about his friendship with John. 

Sherlock could hear John pull his jumper over his head. He could hear John’s breathing, he could hear John pull a worn t-shirt over his head, the same one that John wore to bed every night. Sherlock didn’t move as he heard a belt buckle, a zipper, the material of John’s jeans fall to the ground. Sherlock’s heart rate began to quicken. 

_Why?_

_Was he afraid of being discovered as awake?_

_Was he afraid that John was still angry at him?_

_Was he thinking about how John looked undressed?_

_It seemed to be all three..._

_Interesting._

John was pulling up his pyjama pants now, then pulling back the sheets from his bed. The springs in the mattress groaned again as John lay down and adjusted  under the sheets. Sherlock listened as John leaned over to the nightstand between their beds and switched the lamp off with a small click.  

It was dark now. Sherlock listened to John’s breathing become regular, it became his sleeping rhythm. Sherlock’s eyes were still open, his brain was thinking furiously.

_Trying to rationalize the hound he saw earlier…_

_Trying to rationalize his feelings about John…_

Sherlock waited for John to enter REM sleep. He turned to face John’s bed, saw his eyelids flutter, his pulse was faster, so was his breathing. John was deep in sleep.

_He was dreaming now._

Sherlock sat up on his bed, looking over at John. He felt an odd leap within his belly, there was an odd and unrecognizable feeling in the region where his heart lay, beating against his ribcage. He could see John easily with the moonlight that escaped from the window beside Sherlock. 

_John looked upset, even in sleep._

_Something was troubling him, possibly a dream?_

Sherlock bit his lip, unsure of what to do now. Should he hold John? Tell him that whatever is bothering him is only a dream, his mind playing tricks on him?

_Like the hound that Sherlock saw tonight?_

Sherlock carefully slid to the edge of his bed, there was only a few inches of distance between both beds. 

_Sherlock’s vision began to get hazy, cloudy, as if this wasn’t happening._

_There was a small creaking sound under his bare feet, where he stepped toward John’s bed. John didn’t move, he was still sleeping._

_Sherlock took another step closer, his knees were touching John’s bed frame now._

_John was lying on his back, one hand was on his chest, the other was beside his head on the pillow. John’s worry lines were dominant, Sherlock felt guilt wash over him, he felt like he was the blame for John’s worries. He never deserved John, John was too good for him._

_Sherlock sat at the edge of John’s mattress, John’s thigh was against Sherlock’s lower back. He shifted his position so that he was crouched on the bed beside John’s body. He could feel the waves of body heat touch his own skin, make him shiver._

_Sherlock laid gentle fingers against John’s forehead, he smoothed his touch over the worry lines, trying to make them go away._

_There’s nothing to worry about, John…_

_John must have felt Sherlock’s fingers on his face, or read Sherlock’s mind, because now he was awake. John looked up at Sherlock with tired eyes, the worry was still there. Sherlock looked back at John, into those blue eyes._

_Why was John scared?_

_John’s right hand moved from the pillow and grabbed onto Sherlock’s wrist, he pulled Sherlock’s hand away from his face and examined Sherlock’s fingers. Sherlock just watched, waited to see what John would do._

_John pulled Sherlock fingers closer to his face again, Sherlock could feel the heat from John’s breath against his fingers, he leaned over John a little more. John looked back into Sherlock’s eyes, there was concern, a question in the way that his eyebrows raised. Sherlock parted his lips and felt his face flush. John brought Sherlock’s fingers to his lips, he kissed those slim, pale fingers._

_Sherlock felt something unbearable rise in his chest, he leaned the palm of his unoccupied hand beside John’s chest on the mattress. Sherlock leaned in closer, their bodies were almost touching._

_“I’m sorry,” Sherlock spoke, his voice rough and full of feeling. John stopped kissing his fingers and looked back up at Sherlock, their faces were so close now. Sherlock had no idea how any of this worked, he didn’t know how to read the signs. There was a look in John’s eyes that told Sherlock that something was coming, and before Sherlock could think anymore, John had reached up and kissed Sherlock on the lips._

_The feeling was… something he’d never experienced before. It was new, different, strange. It beckoned for more. Sherlock kissed him back, not knowing how, but feeling like he was getting it right._

_Sherlock was lying on top of John now, the blanket separated them, a symbolic barrier that told Sherlock that this shouldn’t be happening. (Beds were meant for sleeping.) This went against everything that Sherlock and John had ever expected, hoped for, wished for. But they didn’t plan on crossing any more boundaries, this seemed to be the extent that their affection would take. They kissed and it was beautiful. John had his fingers running through Sherlock’s hair, it was a nice feeling. Sherlock had a hand on John’s chest, a reminder of something… but what?_

_His other hand was holding him up, supporting him so that his weight wouldn’t fall onto John and become uncomfortable._

_Sherlock liked the way that their lips moved together, it felt right. John seemed to like it too. He could feel a tongue slide across his lips and he shivered._

_This was so unsanitary._

_But Sherlock could get used to this…_

*

Sherlock exhaled, smoke rose from his lips into the bedroom of his room. The ceiling was hazy with a layer of smoke. He closed his eyes and thought back on the memory from Dartmoor, he smiled as he felt pleasure ripple through him. His groin became uncomfortable under his clothing, but he ignored it. Concentrating instead on the images flying around in his head, he breathed a laugh and sucked in another breath from his joint. Weed did wonders for his imagination, it made him think of things he wouldn’t have even considered while clean. 

Of course, everything that he had just remembered was all memory, but only half of it actually happened. 

That night, he had faked sleep when John came in, indeed, he even looked over at John’s sleeping form in the bed beside his own. But the rest was a dream, a drug induced dream that came to Sherlock that night. Thinking back to it now, it had probably come to him because the gas from Dewer’s Hollow was still in his system, making him see what he had wanted to see.

_Just like the hound._

_Seeing what you want to see, what you’re afraid to see._

Smoking a joint had given him a new outlook on the dream he had that night at the hotel in Dartmoor. 

_Did he really have feelings for John all this time?_

_Were these feelings hidden somewhere in Sherlock’s mind-palace, like a great mind-game of “Hide and Go Seek”?_

Sherlock laughed at the thought, it would be fun to play in his mind-palace, just this once. He’d look through every room, in every shelf and every drawer. 

_Come out, come out, wherever you are!_

 

Sherlock zoned out, the smoke was gone and so was the taste of it on his tongue. He wasn’t even sitting on his bed in that rubbish basement room that he was forced to live in. He was in the entrance of his mind-palace. Counting to ten, he put his hands over his eyes. When he was finished counting, his eyes glanced at every surface. 

He creeped into one of the sitting rooms, where he kept information about various art work and bits of foreign travel. He looked under the embroidered cushions, behind picture frames, under the Persian carpets. Nothing was hiding in there…

Sherlock moved towards one of the many offices where he kept his organizational habits. Nothing was hiding under the desk, nor in the ink bottle, or the file cabinet. 

He looked everywhere on the first floor, going through the different wings and finding every possibly hiding place. Nothing on the first floor.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are!_

He took the grand, golden staircase to the second floor. So many possibilities. If nothing was hiding on this floor, he’d have to go to the third floor. But each room left him disappointed. There was nothing hiding anywhere. Sherlock looked out the great windows from the east wing and let his eyes scan over the garden outside, not too far from the stone path, he saw his wishing well.

A flutter of hope spread through his chest and he rushed away from the window and down the hall. Sherlock jumped down the stairs, not caring about leaving any scuff marks on the expensive marble floors. He sprinted out the door and toward the stone path to his left, over by the east wing of the palace. He followed the path toward the wishing well and once he was close enough, he looked inside it’s depths.

This wishing well had been one of the first things that Sherlock constructed when he created his mind-palace. It’s age was evident by how poorly built the well was. A couple stones had fallen out of the wall, and moss and grown over some of the sides. It was a small well, constructed during his childhood, a time when hopes and dreams were most important to a child. 

Sherlock could see a lot of his wishes rise from the well. Only the wishes that hadn’t come true would stay in there. Very rarely did any of Sherlock’s wishes come true and disappear from the depths of his well, so it was getting pretty crowded in there.

 _I wish I could be a pirate._ He laughed.

 _I wish that I had a friend._ That was a very old wish, one he developed as a six year old. Why had it remained? John was his friend… wasn’t he? Therefore the wish must have come true, why was is still there?

Sherlock was puzzled by that wish, then moved past other wishes such as “I wish I could play in the school’s violin recital.” Another was “I wish Anderson would get fired already.”

But after a long search, Sherlock couldn’t find his feelings for John in the wishing well. He’s have to go check the third floor of his mind-palace. It had to be hiding somewhere in there.

_Come out, come out, wherever you are!_

Sherlock run back into the mind-palace and climbed two staircases in order to get to the third floor. The possibilities up here were endless, he hadn’t lost faith. Just before entering his reference library, he realized that he should check the master bedroom. He ran towards the east wing, turning every corner with that one location in mind. He felt like he was on to something, he felt close to finding what he was looking for.

Finally, he got to the door of his master bedroom. The door was made of pure gold and carved into beautiful decorative designs. Pushing open the heavy door, Sherlock stepped into the room. He could smell excitement in the air, something was definitely hiding here. 

_How long had it been there?_

_How had it remained hidden so well?_

Sherlock stepped in front of the kingsized bed, he smoothed his palms over the blankets, looking for something, _anything_ , to jump at his touch. 

_Nothing was there._

He looked under the pillows, but everything under there was unusual information, things that were unnecessary right now. With frustration, Sherlock kicked the bed, but then he heard a thump under the bed.

_Something was there._

Sherlock crouched down to look under the bed and saw something in the shadows there… He squinted his eyes to improve his vision, then reached in closer. There was a small box, just out of reach. He could see a lock attached to the opening of the box, reaching a little farther, he finally caught hold of the box.

_I found you!_

He slid the box closer, he pulled it out from under the bed. It was dusty, it had probably been there for about two years, almost three. He blew the dust away, sweeping the rest away with his fingers. Sherlock looked at the lock. It needed a key. 

_Where would he find the key?_

He hadn’t the faintest idea. Sherlock threw down the box in exasperation and frustration. 

 

The mind-palace was gone. Sherlock was back in the smoke-filled bedroom of his basement. 

_Why did he snap out of it?_

_What had brought him out of the mind-palace?_

Sherlock stood up from the bed, putting out the red glow at the end of his still smoking joint. Marijuana had helped a little, but he’d come out short.

_Where was the key to that box?_

There was a text alert sound coming from his left, he picked up his cell-phone to see the message. There was an address on the screen. It was from an unknown number. Sherlock smiled down at his phone in triumph. 

_The assassin had taken the bait and was now leading Sherlock to his secret location._

Sherlock felt a thrill rise in his chest as he threw down the phone and dressed up to leave the room. He’d leave everything here, only taking a gun, a GPS, and a small envelop of papers. 

Taking a quick injection of cocaine, Sherlock threw his jacket on and ran up the stairs to the back exit. His pulse was racing again, he was breathing fast and his eyes were wide and ready. His game of “Hide and Go Seek” with the assassin was coming to a close. He’d find the bastard in no time.


	12. Ready

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’d have a new life together.
> 
> He’d keep her safe.
> 
> He wasn’t going to let Mary fall through his fingers.
> 
> Not like Sher-
> 
> ...

John felt like everything was happening so fast, like a dream. Just last night he had told Mary about Sherlock. Since that conversation they shared more than kisses and now John was thinking about a serious future with Mary. He told Harry about it later that morning, leaving out details from the bedroom, obviously. Harry was thrilled, she pulled John into another one of her infamous bone-crushing hugs, she was happy that John had taken a big step in his relationship with Mary. Harry could see the difference that Mary had made in his life, she could tell that John was happy, and telling Mary about his recent loss would help him in the grieving process. Harry’s tea-making skills were improving, so she made him a cup and called Clara. 

There seemed to be romance everywhere. John was in a serious relationship with Mary, and Harry was starting to see her ex, Clara, again. Now that Harry was making a serious effort to end her alcohol addiction, she seemed willing to try at love again. Both Watsons had seemed hopeless with love and romance in the past, but things seemed to be getting better. 

 

The snow had melted and now it was April. Life with Mary seemed perfect, John had almost forgotten that he wanted to talk to Mycroft, about the assassins. He no longer saw danger everywhere, he no longer had the nightmares about guns, falling, blood, Sherlock. He even thought that he could move back to Baker Street soon, get out of Harry’s way so that she could have privacy again. She’d like that, and maybe Mary would like Baker Street… 

“John!” Harry called from the kitchen one evening a week later, “I’m going out with Clara, don’t know when I’ll be back!” John leaned against the threshold of the kitchen door with his hands in his pockets, “Okay, I won’t be doing much tonight. Might go to Mary’s.”

Harry turned towards her brother and gave him a little spin in her evening dress. The skirt flared out when she moved and sparkled in the light. “Very nice,” John said admiringly with a smirk. “Thanks, it’s Clara’s favourite.” Harry blushed a little and smoothed her hands down her dress. 

She stepped toward the threshold and kissed John on the cheek, “Be good, and don’t go nosing around for anymore expensive wine, okay? I still don’t forgive you about the last bottle you chugged,” she laughed as she moved past him, John followed her to the front door. “Sorry about that, I don’t know what came over me… I won’t be doing it again though.” Harry laughed again and slid her shoes on, “I hope not. Anyways, lock up behind me and don’t wait up.”

John nodded in agreement and waved her off as she drove down the dark street. As he locked the door, he pulled his cell phone out of his pocket. It didn’t take long for him to find Mycroft’s private number in his contacts list. 

Now that John had sorted things with Mary, he would have to ask Mycroft about the assassins from the files. He wouldn’t settle down with Mary until he knew that they would be completely safe. It only took a couple rings before John heard Mycroft sigh and greet John.

“Hello, John. To what do I owe the pleasure of your call? I hope you are well?”

Mycroft sounded a little disinterested and preoccupied, but John was determined to get information from that prestigious bastard. 

“I’m fine, Mycroft,” he wanted to get to the point, “I was actually calling about some information you gave me last spring. About the assassins on Baker Street?” He waited to see if Mycroft would respond, but he only heard dead silence on the other side of the line, there was a faint breathing sound but nothing else. “Mycroft?” John called into the receiver, he was starting to feel a little nervous by Mycroft’s reaction. Mycroft usually didn’t do this, there had always been instant replies so that he could end the phone conversations and get back to whatever he was doing before. 

John was about to try speaking again, but Mycroft finally spoke, “Yes… What about them?” Mycroft didn’t say anymore, his returning question was quick and sharp. “Uh… I’ve been feeling really uneasy lately… As if someone’s watching me. It’s probably nothing, but I wasn’t sure if you knew about the remaining assassins. Is there a possibility that they are after me now? And what about Moriarty?” John ran his hand through his hair and sat on the sofa. He was starting to feel really nervous about Mycroft’s long silences. 

_Mycroft always had an answer._

_To everything._

_Why not now?_

There was a shuffling of papers on Mycroft’s side of the line, he seemed shaken and unsure of how to respond. Did that mean that the assassins were after John?

John started to get frustrated, “Listen, Mycroft, you told me that I can trust you, that I’m going to be safe. You told me that you had everything sorted, so why aren’t you telling me anything? What are you hiding? I’m not just worried about my own safety here, what about Mrs. Hudson, and my sister, Harry?” John paused, “I’m with a woman now… Mary Morstan… I want to be with her, I want to move back to Baker Street with her, and I want to propose to her, but I can’t endanger her or any of the people around me, I _won’t_. 

“So tell me now, tell me what I need to know, Mycroft. Or so help me I will seek everything out myself. I’ll leave my safe little bubble and endanger my own safety to protect the others. I’m not going to take anymore of your guessing games, your tricks, I’m not going to sit on my ass and wait for trouble to find the people I love. It’s happened before…”

_Sherlock._

“Please, tell me if I’m in danger, _now_. If so, tell me what to do. Just… _talk_ to me, Mycroft!” John was standing again, his left hand clutched at the phone, his right hand was in a tight fist. John didn’t care if danger was after him as much as he cared about the other people he’d be endangering. He couldn’t risk Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Harry. 

“John…” Mycroft spoke calmly, “I’d hold off the proposal if I were you. I cannot say that you are in danger, or that the others are in danger. I can tell you with ease that you are safe in your current destination, but don’t make any commitments that you might have to break.” Now it was John’s turn to be silent. 

Of course John felt a little better knowing that he was safe… but was he really? Was Mycroft covering something up? He tended to do that, keep people in the dark. He especially loved keeping John in the dark. John had so much more to say, so many more questions to ask Mycroft. But before he could say another word, he hung up. 

Maybe he shouldn’t have moved so fast with Mary. This wasn’t good. If Mycroft wanted John to break up with her, there had to be something wrong. _Something was threatening to put Mary in danger, and John didn’t want that._

_John had known that Sherlock was in trouble._

_John had tried to save Sherlock, but it was too late._

_He lost Sherlock._

_Now there was the possibility that he could lose Mary._

_John still didn’t know about the assassins._

_But he had a feeling that there was danger close by._

Without a second thought, he walked to his room and looked at his suitcase. It was so empty, vacant. He’d have to fill it up again, he’d have to go back to Baker Street. There was no time to play games now, John had to look for as much information as he could. He needed to find that file about the assassins back at the flat. He needed to find a way to stop anyone from taking away the people he loved.

After throwing his small collection of belongings into the suitcase, he pulled it to the door, leaving it beside the coat rack. John left Harry’s house, locking the door behind him and walking into the cool early-spring weather. It was late, the puddles from recent rain left wet stains on the bottoms of his jeans. John got to Mary’s door and she let him in. 

John told her about his suspicions, how they could be in trouble. Mary listened to him, tight lipped and nervous. John didn’t want her to come with him anymore, he could be getting her into more danger. Mary should stay here. But before he could stop her, she was packing her own suitcase, determined to go to Baker Street with him. 

“John, I’m not going to let you walk into danger like this. I want to help you, we can find everything we need together. I understand the dangers in our way, I know the risks. I’m not going to let you face them alone, we’re a couple, a partnership. I’m staying with you!” John stood by her bedroom door, speechless. He watched her pick out what she needed, she was quick and efficient. 

John tried to convince himself that having Mary with him would be better, he could keep her safe, with him. Mycroft had said that John was safe, that everything was fine. But why had he seemed so unsure? John _wasn’t_ stupid. They’d stay at Baker Street for now, John was ready to go back. Mary would help the transition become easier. 

They would take their time, there was no rush. John would look for all the information he could get his hands on, Mary would help him. Mycroft had cameras everywhere, he’d know that John was back at the flat before Mrs. Hudson would. _This could work out._

_It could._

_It would._

_It had to._

“Let’s go,” Mary smiled at John, some of the nervousness was gone from her eyes. He took her suitcase and they went back to Harry’s house, next door. John wrote a quick note to Harry, leaving it on the kitchen counter.

_I’m going back to Baker Street, Mary’s with me. Thank you for helping me out. If you need me, just call. I’ll answer my phone. There’s a check under this note. Keep the money, consider it pay back for the expensive bottle of wine I drank awhile ago._

_Love, John._

“Okay, my suitcase is at the door, did you call a cab?” John turned to Mary, she was looking at her phone. “Yes, I also called my mum and let her know. She’s going to watch my house for me.” John had forgotten that Mary would be leaving her house behind, empty. He felt a little guilty for having her come along in a rush like this, but then remembered that this was what Mary wanted. 

_They’d have a new life together._

_He’d keep her safe._

_He wasn’t going to let Mary fall through his fingers._

_Not like Sher-_

“The cab’s here, John. Come on.” She stood by the door with her suitcase. John followed her, locking the door behind them and packing their suitcases in the boot of the cab. John opened the door for Mary, letting her in first. John sat beside her, he held her hand.

“Take us to 221B Baker Street.”


	13. A Trail of Breadcrumbs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Papers were littered on the floor.
> 
> The windows were open.
> 
> Air blew in a made some of the papers tumble towards him.
> 
> There was no other movement.
> 
> Sherlock was on edge, ready.
> 
> ...

It was the thrill of the chase that made Sherlock feel alive again. Not just metaphorically, but physically. Though it was a rather strange way to describe it since Sherlock was still considered dead to the general public. 

Here he was, running through the streets of London. There was cool air rushing over his face, his coat billowing out behind him. Heart beat and breathing were rapid, he felt like he might burst with all the vitality. There was a buzz in his pocket, probably a text from Mycroft. Sherlock didn’t let anything cloud his mind, he was ready to catch and kill the first major assassin.

_There wasn’t room for thoughts of John._

_He wouldn’t think about John’s new relationship, possible engagement._

_He wouldn’t think about Mary Morstan._

_He wouldn’t think about the development of his own feelings towards John._

_He wouldn’t think about the box under his mind-palace bed and the missing key._

_But where would that key be hiding?_

_Wait- he had a clear mind. He wasn’t thinking about John and the little box of feelings._

There was time for feelings after this game was over. Already, this had continued for almost a complete year after Sherlock’s suicide. When the world thought that all was done between Sherlock and Moriarty, they had no idea that Sherlock was just getting started. 

Moriarty might have really killed himself on the hospital roof, and Sherlock might have “killed” himself in a way for the world to see, but Moriarty wasn’t going to play fair. _That_ was why Sherlock had to stay alive, as silly as it sounded.

_Stayin’ Alive._

If Sherlock could destroy Moriarty’s last secret weapon, Moriarty’s last stroke against him, Sherlock could live freely.

Moriarty still planned on killing Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson… John. Even if Sherlock was dead, of course he wouldn’t make it obvious. He’d have his employees wait in the shadows until the time was right. If Sherlock could take them down, one by one, Moriarty’s last assault would be a failure, and Sherlock would win the game.

_Only it wasn’t a game… not anymore._

Once, he had threatened to take John’s life, long before the final problem. When he strapped the bomb to John’s chest, showed Sherlock what he was capable of doing.

_Owning Sherlock._

_Making him dance like a puppet._

_Showing Sherlock that with the pull of a trigger, Sherlock’s world would disappear before his own eyes._

_Moriarty would claim John Watson as his own._

_And Sherlock wouldn’t take that._

_He’d fight for John._

_To the bitter end._

Sherlock felt anger course through him as he thought about that night at the pool. John scared him so much. It was in that moment that Sherlock realized that Moriarty was only doing this for him, not to terrorize London. He only wanted to destroy Sherlock, burn the heart out of him. It was fun to watch people suffer, he was bored of staying alive. And Moriarty found it touching to see the pure agony and fear in Sherlock’s eyes as he realized that John was his greatest weapon.

_When did Moriarty find out?_

_How?_

_Had he been spying on them together, had he seen their connection?_

_What made Moriarty decide that he’d use John as a weapon?_

Sherlock couldn’t think about this now. He’d probably never find out. Moriarty was full of secrets, and he killed all those secrets when he sent a bullet through his brain on the roof of St. Bart’s. Sherlock’s eyes scanned every surface, every object in his vision. He was so close to finding the first assassin. 

So close that he could almost taste the victory on his tongue.

_It was metallic._

_Poisonous._

_Something that he shouldn’t be enjoying this much._

_After all, he was going to kill a man._

_The thrill of the chase…_

_That was what he missed most._

 

Sherlock had been running through the vacant alleyways and side-streets for a few hours now, it was past midnight. He could feel fatigue beginning to pull at the muscles in his legs, he could really use another dose of cocaine right now…

His mouth watered for the taste of tobacco, marijuana, _anything_. He needed his fix, something to give him that last burst of energy before the kill. He realized that this had been the reason he quit drugs in the first place, his dependancy on drugs was worse than his natural bodily needs for sleep and food. Food slowed him down, but drugs drained him. And in this moment, the fatigue was the _last_ thing he needed. 

Within a couple minutes, he was just outside the warehouse. It was a large building, high glass windows, and a sturdy structure of cement and brick. It stank of mold and cardboard, the air felt heavy and tasted stale. It probably hadn’t been used in years, from the looks of it’s contents, it was an abandoned warehouse that stored recycled paper and cardboard for packaging. Sherlock held onto his gun and stepped into the dark building. A shiver ran through him, even though the weather was getting warmer. With his heart racing, he wove his way around the piles of boxes and crates, looking for the destination where his assassin was hiding. Sherlock had hoped that the assassin wouldn’t be expecting him, but there was always the possibility that he was watching Sherlock, waiting for the right moment to pull his own trigger. 

He didn’t dare take out his torch, it would draw attention toward his destination in the warehouse. Another buzz sounded from his coat pocket and Sherlock ignored it again. Mycroft would be extremely angry at him for ignoring the texts. They hadn’t discussed this part of the plan, Sherlock had just gone ahead without a second thought. 

The groaning of a doorway sounded from the second level of the warehouse, Sherlock’s head snapped up toward the noise, listening closely for any other sounds or movement. His hand was feeling clammy against the cool metal of the gun, he gripped onto it with more strength, as much as he could muster.

A thud came from the same area of the second floor, Sherlock would have to find a ladder or a stairwell in order to get up there. It was so dark though, so hard to find his way around the maze of crates and boxes. 

Another buzz came from his pocket, Sherlock was tempted to throw the damned phone onto the hard concrete floor. Taking a few more steps, he noticed a crunching sound beneath his shoes. Crouching down to the ground, he examined the source of the noise, bread crumbs. 

Taking his phone out of his pocket and ignoring the messages on the screen, he used the dim light to examine a path of bread crumbs, as if it was going to lead Sherlock to the assassin.

_Was it a dare, a trick?_

_Should the bread crumbs be ignored, or was it another message from Moriarty?_

There wasn’t any point in ignoring it now, if he was going to find the assassin, he’d have to follow the path. Take the risk.

He took out his torch, there wasn’t any point of hiding himself anymore, the assassin knew he was here. The stranger wasn’t a coward, he wasn’t going to hide. He left this trail for Sherlock as an invitation, he wasn’t going to go down without a proper fight. Guns were too quick for this man, there was a strong possibility that Sherlock would have to fight him with his fists. 

_His strength._

A feeling of dread washed over Sherlock, maybe he’d just skip the introductions and kill the man on the spot. He didn’t have time for a test of physical strength, in fact, he didn’t have the strength _at all_.

Again, he was regretting the drugs, wishing that he’d found a better way to sort himself out, something that was better for brainwork. Decisions would have to wait for later, he followed the path towards a ladder against  the far wall. Freeing his hands and stretching the tendons, he put both gloved hands onto the bars of the ladder. He gripped onto the cold metal, testing his strength. 

_He’d be fine._

_He had to be fine._

Sherlock took careful steps up the ladder, his eyes had adjusted to the dark warehouse enough to see his surroundings in the dim light. It wasn’t a far distance to the second floor, but he worried about what he would find at the top. 

He carefully peered onto the ground of the second floor, no one was there. There was another bread crumb path for him to follow toward a partly opened door, only a few metres away. Bringing his legs up onto the ground, he stood and looked at the doorway. It glared at him, daring him to enter. 

Sherlock walked towards the door carefully, his gun was held firmly in his right hand. Heart rate was speeding even more now.

_John._

_John._

_John._

_John._

_This was one step closer to John._

He blinked his eyes as he put a hand to the wooden surface in front of him, he was ready. Pushing the door out of his way, he pulled his gun to eye level, his eyes moved over every surface in the small abandoned office room. 

_Papers were littered on the floor._

_The windows were open._

_Air blew in a made some of the papers tumble towards him._

_There was no other movement._

_Sherlock was on edge, ready._

Something caught his eye, something attached to the wall. Sherlock kept a firm hold on the gun and glided toward to wall opposite. Getting closer, he could see that there was a torn page pinned to the wall. In bold font it said:

**_Little Snow White_ **

His eyes widened as he understood. He could remember the copy of “Grimm’s Fairy Tales” that he kept in his bedroom after finding it at that crime scene last year. The book was in a envelop, a red wax seal attached to the flap. The book inside became Sherlock’s greatest weapon in solving Moriarty’s riddles. This was a page from the same edition. 

_I_

_Iodine_

_53_

_Little Snow White._

Sherlock tore the page from the wall, holding it up to see it more clearly, something was inscribed near the bottom of the-

_There was a sound behind him._

Without a moments hesitation, Sherlock turned around and shot at the shadowy figure. 

 _He missed_.

The shadow came at him before he could respond with another try at the gun. He was on the floor. The air was knocked out of his lungs, he saw stars. The shadowed figure was above him, pinning him to the ground.

_It was the assassin._

_Lestrade’s assassin._

Papers crunched beneath his body. Panic and adrenaline flooded through his system. It replaced the cocaine, the energy was instant. Sherlock threw a punch, a kick, he hit the man in all the vital areas that he could reach.

_He was losing his focus, his strength._

_This was more difficult than he remembered._

No words were exchanged between the two enemies, only grunts and hits and breathing.There was blood in Sherlock’s mouth, he couldn’t see properly.

_The man above him was smiling._

_He thought that he had beaten Sherlock._

With a last rush of energy, Sherlock pulled the gun to his enemy’s chest, right over the man’s living, beating heart. Before the assassin could register the cold pressure or respond, Sherlock pulled the trigger. He felt the full weight of the dead man fall onto his body. He was stuck, he couldn’t move, he felt blood soak into his chest, through his clothing.

With as much energy he could muster, he pushed the dead weight off of his chest, trying to breath. 

_Remember how to breath._

_Inhale._

_Exhale._

_John._

_John._

_John._

Sherlock felt so weak, he was drifting. He didn’t know where he was drifting. But he felt his eyelids grow heavy as he looked at the effect that the moonlight from the window had on the desk beside him, the papers on the floor continued to tumble around him and the body of the assassin. There was red splotches on some of the pages now, his arm fell to his side and he reached for the page that he had plucked from the wall before the attack.

_Little Snow White._

_One man down._

He felt his breathing begin to slow, his heart rate was irregular, the pauses between beats became longer and longer. 

_Everything was slow._

He closed his eyes, felt air escape his lungs and his body sag against the floor.

_Please come back._

_I will John, I will._

_I can’t sleep._

_I don’t want to sleep, don’t let me go, John._

_I don’t want to forget you._

_I will never forget you._

... _John._

**End of Part One**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that's the end of the first part of this fanfic! The second part is available now too! I just posted the first chapter of the second part (The Second Year), so don't hesitate to find out what happens next!  
> Thanks for reading and the kudos, leave comments so that I know what you think! :)
> 
> Just a heads up, there are four parts to this fanfic, so there's still a lot of action to come! Each part is a year for the story (which explains the titles of the parts: First Year, Second Year, Third Year, The Return).


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